


a little party never killed nobody

by missrainydays



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, Character Study, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:26:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3202385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missrainydays/pseuds/missrainydays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phryne Fisher enjoyed gossip.  It was something that she had accepted about herself rather early on, despite the scolding Aunt Prudence gave her when, as a child, she had leaned over to overhear her father’s conversations.  Besides, loose lips were nearly always the source of good information, and good gossip made for good sleuthing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime after “Murder Under the Mistletoe,” although there are no specific spoilers as of yet. 
> 
> This is also loosely crossed-over with The Great Gatsby, and many of the same characters and circumstances will arise, although names have been changed, of course.
> 
> Rated T for now, although may go up in later chapters.

It all started with a bit of gossip.

Phryne Fisher enjoyed gossip. It was something that she had accepted about herself rather early on, despite the scolding Aunt Prudence gave her when, as a child, she had leaned over to overhear her father’s conversations. Besides, loose lips were nearly always the source of good information, and good gossip made for good sleuthing.

Which was why, on this pleasant day in early spring, one miss Gillian Linscott was trotting up the walk of Phryne’s St. Kilda home. At tea a few days prior, Phryne had caught wind of a small rumor- well, a number of them, if one was being precise- regarding her old friend, Miss Linscott, and was hoping that the young woman would deny it.

“I’m afraid it’s true,” said Gillian, sullen, sipping on her tea. Usually charming, her delicate face had darkened somehow since Phryne had seen her last, perhaps only a few weeks prior. And now, here she was, perched delicately on one of Phryne’s sofas, her stocking feet tucked under her. “Although I will not name the father, to protect his good name, of course.”

“Understandably,” Phryne wanted to snort in derision, but decided against it, and instead studied her friend. She had a rather sneaking suspicion that she already knew who the father was, if her friend’s social habits were any indication, but she held her tongue. “More tea?”

Gillian nodded and held out her cup, and rather than call on Dot, Phryne poured it herself. “I had heard, originally, that it was Miss Buchanan who was pregnant.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Gillian. “I haven’t heard that. If she is, perhaps we should start a club.” Gillian spoke in a low, thrilling voice, the kind that one couldn’t help but follow up and down, as if each her speech were an arrangement of musical notes, keeping perfect time and pitch.

Phryne was relieved to see her friend in such good spirits, particularly when her social standing was on the line. “So…” she began, unsure how to broach this topic delicately.  
“What are you going to do?”

“I had thought about seeing someone. A doctor, perhaps,” Gillian began, sensing what Phryne was really trying to ask. “But, I am a woman of means, am I not? I can raise this child without a man. What do I need a husband for? Really, just one more person to accommodate.”

“That’s admirable,” said Phryne at last, genuinely impressed by her friend’s independence and willingness to buck societal expectations. “Please let me know if you need anything, won’t you? Even if it is just someone with whom you can face society or my Aunt Prudence’s luncheons. I’d hate for you to face that storm alone.”

Gillian smiled and reached over to touch Phryne’s knee. It was strangely intimate, and Phryne could tell that the information that had just been entrusted to her was expected to be kept secret, at least until her condition became too obvious to deny. “Thank you. That means the world to me. You and I have always been so similar… So unwilling to be told no.” Gillian laughed, her face lovely and sad, full of bright eyes and cheeks and lips, her auburn hair pulled up and away to expose them.

Phryne laughed, in kind. “Now, enough of all this! Please, tell me what you have been up to these days? I’m afraid I’m sorely behind on my socializing.”

“Been spending a lot of time with the police, I’ve heard!” teased Gillian, her lips pulled up in polite jest, although her remark hit a sensitive place in Phryne’s chest. “No time to attend any of the soirees or society events, to be sure.”

“Yes, I’ve been quite busy. Who knew Melbourne had turned into such an exciting place? Full of crime and intrigue.” She tried to keep her face straight, her eyes unwavering, although she suspected that Gillian had already made up her mind about what went on during Phryne’s late evenings in the police station.

Gillian nodded, giving no indication that she was going to pry further. Gillian Linscott, Phryne had decided, was not a gossip, and Phryne was very grateful for that small kindness, just now. “I’ve been reading all about your exploits in the papers. Although, you know, I have been rather busy of late, as well.”

“Quite,” quipped Phryne, indicating Gillian’s still petite waist and what grew inside. 

“No no! Not just that of course,” laughed her guest, waving her delicate fingers through the air as though conducting an invisible orchestra. “There have been these splendid parties, every other evening it feels like.”

“Oh?” asked Phryne, her interest suddenly piqued. “Thrown by whom?”

“No one is quite sure,” whispered Gillian, so hushed that Phryne had to lean over to hear her properly. “He’s some American gentleman, a Mr. Salisbury, come over just recently and purchased a rather large estate very near here,” she sniffed, and her sun-stained eyes looked up at Phryne with a polite disinterest, as though speaking of fancy soirees thrown by mysterious foreign gentlemen was akin to speaking on the weather. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”

“Near here?” Asked Phryne, making no such effort to feign disinterest. “In St. Kilda?”

Gillian nodded, keeping her gaze steady. “Just south, in fact, near Elwood. Right on the water, you could dip your feet into the bay from the lawn of the place. And the queer thing about it is that no one seems to be invited. All of these people- all society people of course- they just show up! None of us have even actually met this Mr. Salisbury, to be sure, although I’ve heard he’s quite dashing.” She paused, tipped her head back and allowed a bright smile to tie up her lips. “Oh Phryne, you really must accompany me tonight! It would be such a delight to spend more time with you, and catch up on all of your most recent adventures.” 

Phryne knew this invitation was in large part due to her friend’s rather unfortunate condition, but she was pleased to be invited regardless. “I would be delighted.”

\--

 

Phryne arrived at the sprawling estate at half past seven in the evening, and the sun had not quite set, but was instead hanging, indecisive, on the horizon. She had eaten an early supper, put on an elegant (and maybe even a tad conservative, for her wardrobe) lavender frock, and had agreed to meet up with Gillian at eight sharp. She eased the Hispano into the long, winding drive, already five cars deep and half a dozen wide, each car sleeker and more expensive than the last. The gardens on the sprawling lawn were lush with vibrant colors and thick with the sickly aroma of pollen and freshly tilled earth. As she straightened her hair, she could hear the far-off crescendo of jazz music, dipping and swinging in the warm evening.

The entirety of the grounds were alive with chatter and tinkling laughter, all formalities and introductions forgotten on the spot. Phryne witnessed a number of enthusiastic meetings between women and men who never learned each other’s names, but instead groped at each other with passion, and spoke in hushed, earnest voices. It was all quite surreal, and reminded Phryne of the hazy, contented warmth of a dream or a distant memory, played out in muted colors and far-off sounds. In fact, upon her arrival she had begun to feel dreamy and content, as though she had just eaten a large, satisfying meal.

“Oh Phryne!” exclaimed Gillian, suddenly appearing, throwing her thin arms around her. “I am so glad you could make it.” Despite her polite disinterest in all things social, her friend’s excitement was genuine, and it filled Phryne with warmth to know that Gillian was so fond of her.

“What an event!” Phryne cried out, noticing how easily her excitement spilled out of her mouth. “These grounds are exquisite.”

Gillian nodded, taking Phryne by the hand and leading her up a set of stairs towards a fountain and a small group of young people, lingering with glasses in hand. Below the fountain was a number of small, intimate areas, delicately sloped to varying degrees to allow for privacy, and each decorated finely with benches, twinkling lights, and shrubberies. A glimmering, cerulean swimming pool winked and glistened to her right, boiling with swimmers and the sound of splashing limbs. “Phryne, these are all of my very closest friends.”

“How wonderful to meet all of you,” Phryne found herself saying as a flute of champagne appeared seemingly without a source into her hand. “Please, Gillian, introduce me!”

Gillian gestured to a small, dark-skinned woman with almond-shaped eyes, a deeply dark complexion, and heavy perfume. “This is Miss Sylvia Buchanan.”

“Ah!” Phryne extended her hand as Miss Buchanan kissed her, elegantly, on the cheek, and suddenly the lights grew brighter as the sun, finally, pulled itself away from the earth. “I’m so glad to finally make your acquaintance.” Phryne paused, studied her, and then asked: “Are you an American?”

“Likewise,” purred Sylvia in her soft, breathy American accent, her heavy eyelids fluttering closed. “And yes. I was born and raised in Alabama, but moved here after the war. My parents highly disapprove, of course.” She was impeccably dressed in a dark blue gown that stopped just at the knee, exposing two sleek, slender legs. Her arms were bare, and a small gold bracelet snaked its way from her wrist to the small crook in her elbow. She seemed less genuine than Gillian, however, save for her bored expression, which Phryne suspected was not an act at all. “I’ve heard so much about your _exploits_ from your dear Aunt Prudence.”

Phryne did not answer, only nodded politely as the swing orchestra suddenly swelled and began to play cocktail music, causing everyone to pitch his or her voice a key higher in response. She did not appreciate her detective work being referred to as “exploits,” or worse, “a hobby,” although she imagined that she must have earned such a description. Still, the small amount of celebrity her detective work had granted her gave her hope. 

“And this-“ continued Gillian, gesturing to the blonde at Sylvia’s left, “is Mrs. Julietta Trippett, wife of this charming fellow here, Mr. Maximillian Trippett.”

Phryne had met the Trippetts before, briefly, at a fundraiser for children or widowed women or invalids, but had not had the distinct displeasure of speaking with them personally. She could tell, just by looking at them, that they were as vain as they were cruel, but she did not allow these feelings to blemish her mouth as she smiled at them.

The Trippetts nodded as they were introduced. Mr. Trippett took Phryne by the hand and placed a sloppy, impolite kiss on the soft skin of her wrist. “Enchanted, Miss Fisher. How quite beautiful you are! I am surprised no gentleman has claimed you as his own, yet.”

Insulted, but not feeling quite up to defending herself to these strangers, Phryne smiled and instead let it pass between them, floating up above their heads until it was no longer of consequence.

If his wife disapproved of his sloppy display, she made no indication, and instead smiled prettily. Julietta was petite, with small breasts and a long torso. She was a fair, blonde-haired woman, and wearing just enough rouge to highlight her sharp cheekbones. “Indeed. Quite glad to finally meet you, the famously unmarried Miss Fisher.” She giggled to herself, as though her joke were quite funny and not to anyone’s expense. “You know I am not intending to be unkind, of course, Miss Fisher. We all appreciate your enthusiasm for maidenhood.” 

Phryne smiled, her world coming into much sharper focus. The colors around her swam bright and nearly blinding, although she did not let the barb falter her. She gulped more champagne, which eased her.

“And finally-“ Gillian cut in, hoping to dissipate the tension that hung solid and black between Phryne and Mrs. Trippett, “I present Mr. Quentin Garside, Julietta’s eldest brother, and, if I may say so, quite the eligible bachelor.” Gillian, a self-proclaimed _spinster_ herself, said this with a playful wink to Phryne, and Phryne finally allowed the tension in her shoulders to ease. Still, she finished her champagne with a little too much enthusiasm. 

Mr. Garside was a head taller than the rest of them, with a square jaw and playful, boyish eyes. He was clearly related to Julietta, for his face was just as fair and sharp as hers, only he had a kindness to him, a softness that could not be buffed out by societal tedium. He smiled at her and kissed her hand, slowly, although this time the contact of lips on bare skin made Phryne shiver in her heels rather than repulsed.

“Ah, Mr. Garside!” She exclaimed, grasping his hand with her own and rather enjoying the feeling of his calloused palm. It reminded her of the Detective-Inspector, for some reason, and she was a little surprised by the sudden thought of him in her minds eye. She tried to push him out so that she could focus on socializing with poise, but the thought of his large hands and dark eyes was making that more than a little difficult. “I very much enjoyed reading your paper on suffrage. Its always good to see a man who supports the rights of women.”

“I am flattered, Miss Fisher,” Quentin rasped, his breath hanging in the air between them. “I’m afraid the university did not share your appreciation.”

“Well, history will see them as they are,” she replied quickly, stepping back from him slightly to regain her composure. The whiskey on his breath was making her light-headed.

Sylvia, however, scoffed, and finished the rest of her champagne. “While I appreciate a man who supports the rights of women, as well,” she took a deep breath, aware that her words were charged, “but you did not make any mention of the negro woman. Where does our struggle fit in with your idea of women’s suffrage, Mr. Garside?” 

Quentin laughed and took Sylvia’s long hand in his, intertwining their contrasting fingers and bringing them to his lips. “You are quite right, Miss Buchanan. I do apologize. Perhaps you can collaborate on my next paper?”

Julietta cleared her throat, daintily touching her husband on the arm. “Darling, would you mind grabbing me another glass of champagne? I’m terribly parched.”

Maximillian Trippett nodded and eagerly ascended the stairs into the open doors of the parlor, seeking out a waiter with a tray of champagne. Phryne genuinely hoped that he was kind enough to bring her a refresher, but suspected that he would not. 

“Where is Gertie?” murmured Gillian, the sound of which caused everyone to lean in closer.

“Not here,” replied Sylvia quickly, her voice hitched with champagne and passion. “Her brother won’t allow her to come. Says we’re all quite uncivilized.”

Julietta snorted and stared deeply into a small, silver compact. “How dull.”

The atmosphere hung thick around them after that, as though suddenly they were all feeling exceptionally existential, wondering if they were, in fact, quite uncivilized. Phryne certainly felt so, all of a sudden, and felt very much like going home and having a stiff drink.

“Who has made the acquaintance of our host, Mr. Salisbury? I am quite eager to meet with him.” Phryne said, casually, hoping to dissipate the weight that had descended upon them.

Julietta laughed and touched her neck. “Why, no one!” 

“Oh, come on,” Phryne prodded, hoping to get something out of these women. Weren’t society types supposed to know every move everyone made? It certainly seemed that way, at least where Phryne’s moves were concerned. “Someone must have had the pleasure. He can’t be a ghost.”

“But he is,” murmured Gillian in her lyrical voice. “No one has even seen him, let alone spoken with him.”

“I have,” said Sylvia suddenly, looking up at the rest of them through her thick dark lashes. Her lips were pursed disapprovingly, as though she had already had quite enough gossip. “He and I are very close friends. He knew my father closely, before the war.”

Julietta sighed and crossed her arms. “Well, come on then! Tell us what he’s like!”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She paused. “He was a war hero, for America. Awarded medals for bravery and valor, that sort of thing. He inherited quite a lot of money from a rich uncle sometime after, and spent some time in New York City.” Sylvia paused and took a sip of her champagne. “I’ve heard a rumor that he got his money bootlegging, but that is simply not true!”

Satisfied with this information, Phryne excused herself in search of more champagne while Julietta quizzed Sylvia relentlessly on their mysterious host. The poor girl should have kept her mouth shut, Phryne thought to herself, making a mental note to check into this Salisbury fellow in the daylight hours.

The rest of the night went on in that fashion, with gaudy talk, and swirling eddies of unknown faces, all floating around the gardens like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. Occasionally, a confident pair of partiers would throw themselves into the center of the crowd and dance triumphantly to the smooth tenor of the saxophone or the oboe, and for a moment, there was not a soul on the earth except for the two of them, moving quickly on the tilting grandeur of the earth.

At the end of the night, Phryne had a lovely buzz of champagne and conversation, and bade her new group of friends good evening. She rather liked them, even if the Trippetts were as abrasive as they were cruel. There was a sort of worldliness about them that Phryne greatly appreciated, and as such as willing to let their tactlessness slide, for now. 

Gillian hugged her tightly as she left, as though holding onto her for a moment longer would allow bravery to seep into her skin and allow her to continue to socialize for the remainder of the evening, alone, and without Phryne’s supportive arm. Phryne wondered if perhaps she should offer Gillian a ride home in her Hispano, and when she wondered this aloud, Gillian eagerly dismissed her. “Oh, thank you, Phryne, but I will be quite alright,” she sang, as though reciting poetry, and Phryne left her to her own devices. 

__

Dorothy Williams smiled to herself in the wan, early morning sunlight that filtered in through the kitchen windows. She enjoyed these quiet hours of morning, when the house was still, when she was free to be alone with her thoughts. This morning, however, she heard Hugh Collins’ large boots trod quietly- as quietly as any man in heavy boots could, in any case- on the walk outside the kitchen, and she could catch the curve of his hat in between the sunbeams. He had not been around in a few days, which was sometimes the case, but even so, she was happy to see him. Miss Fisher had returned quite late last night from a party, her lavender dress smelling of champagne, wildflowers, and tobacco smoke. Dorothy had already washed and pressed the gown, and was mending a pair of Unmentionables when Hugh rapped softly on the kitchen door. 

She met his eyes through the windowpane and, with a smile, he made his way inside.

“Good morning, Dottie!” His voice was hushed, keenly aware that her household was still asleep. However, there was an excitement and warmth in his voice that was unmistakable. He leaned over her, smelling freshly of coffee and aftershave, and pressed his lips to the hollow below her cheekbones. 

“Good morning,” she replied quietly, allowing herself to linger in the smell of him before standing. “Can I get you some scones and a cup of tea?”

“Yes please!” He beamed, removing his hat and making himself comfortable at the table. He watched her place two blackberry scones, jam, and cream on a plate before clearing his throat. “I do apologize for being absent lately, Dottie. It’s been rather busy down at the station.” 

“Oh?” asked Dorothy, pretending to make polite conversation, but eagerly hoping to hear something interesting that she could relay to Miss Fisher later in the afternoon. She placed a cup of tea in front of him, as well as the plate of scones. 

“Oh yes.” He replied around a mouthful of crumbs and jam. “It’s getting warmer, you know. More questionable types out and about. Nothing you need to worry your head about, though. I promise you, I am keeping the streets safe and sound.”

Dorothy hummed and seated herself across from him, studying the way the sun washed out his face and made his eyes fantastically bright. She knew that their engagement would, inevitably, end, with children and fussing, but for now she was enjoying things as they were, easy between the two of them, especially in this moment. He was so boyish, and so eager to do right in the world, traits which she found incredibly endearing. 

“For instance,” he began again, as she knew he would. “There’s this American fellow who has moved to the area recently and has taken it upon himself to entertain all of Melbourne society. Which is all right, and all, but the Inspector suspects these parties are a money laundering scheme.”

“Mr. Salisbury?” Dorothy asked suddenly, making the connection in her mind. “Why, Miss Fisher was just at one of his parties last night!”

Hugh paused, as though suddenly aware that he may have said too much, and swallowed down a generous bite of scone. “You see, Dottie, he had a reputation as a bootlegger in America, and he has been shipping in a suspiciously large number of goods on the ships.”

“And you think he’s shipping in illegal alcohol?”

“Well, not only that,” Hugh replied quickly, unable to back out now that he had broached the subject. Distantly, he noted that now that he had told Dottie, that Miss Fisher would know, as well. He shook his head, making a mental note not to mention this to the inspector. “but things for his parties, you know, fruits and musicians and dancers. It would be easy to slip in a few bottles of moonshine, wouldn’t it?”

Dorothy’s mouth thinned. That did sound suspicious. She wondered if Miss Fisher had known this outright, and had other motives for attending these parties aside from socializing.

“Oh! Look at the time!” Exclaimed Hugh suddenly, gathering his hat, and without another word he was placing another kiss on her cheek. “I must be off!”

Within moments, he was gone. The sun still shone in the windows and the air still smelled thick with his aftershave, but something else had shifted, too, making Dorothy unable to resume her quiet thoughts. 

“Good morning, Dot!” Miss Fisher greeted her, suddenly, touching her gently on the shoulder. “Did you sleep well?” 

Dorothy nodded quickly, getting up to fix a cup of tea for her employer. “Oh yes, Miss, very well.”

“Glad to hear it,” Miss Fisher said, already absorbed in the day’s newspaper. 

“Mr. Butler has just stepped out for a smoke and will be back shortly to fix breakfast. And, um,” Dorothy began, setting tea in front of her. “I have some information that you might be interested in.”

This piqued Miss Fisher’s interest, and her eyes snapped up to meet Dorothy’s gaze. “Oh? Do tell.”

“Well, you see Miss, Hugh stopped by on his way to work this morning and told me that they’ve been very busy down at the station these days,” she took a breath, then began afresh: “He said they’ve been looking into a person of interest who has just arrived in Melbourne. An alleged bootlegger, he said…”

Miss Fisher’s eyes grew wide and she grinned, circling the mouth of her teacup with her finger. “Mr. Salisbury?”

Dorothy nodded. “I’m afraid so, Miss. Hugh says that he ships in quite a lot of cargo from America, enough to be suspicious.”

“How interesting…” Miss Fisher was already shifting around her engagements for the afternoon to allow time to drop in on Jack Robinson. “Dot, will you prepare a basket with some lunch for the Inspector and I? This Salisbury fellow is getting much more interesting.”

“Did you know, Miss?” Dorothy asked quickly. “Did you know he was a bootlegger when you agreed to attend his party?”

Miss Fisher smiled knowingly, as though she had already been anticipating this question. “Of course not, Dot!” And like a whirlwind, she was out of the kitchen and up the stairs, preparing to face the day.


	2. Chapter 2

The weather in Melbourne had been wonderfully pleasant, with spring eagerly baying at the frosty heels of winter. Detective-Inspector Jack Robinson had already been at work for several hours when Collins arrived, smiling, with suspicious looking crumbs on his chin. It didn’t take a detective to figure out that he had been to see Miss Williams before his shift, and probably also eaten some of Mr. Butler’s delicious blackberry scones. Which meant that surely he had told Miss Williams why he had been so absent of late, and about the bootlegger they were busy looking into… Which meant that Miss Fisher now knew, as well, and it was only a matter of time before- 

“Hello, Jack!”

Ah. Right on cue. The woman was as (enchantingly) frustrating as she was predictable.

And enchanting she was. Miss Fisher stood in the doorway to his office, her hip jutted out just so and a mischievous smile on her lips. She was a vision in green, wearing an emerald satin dress (that was dangerously short, hitting just above where her knee swept into thigh, God help him) with elegant lacework around the arms and collar. Perched on her head was a stylish white hat, adorned beautifully with green and blue feathers. In her hands, she carried a large basket, draped with gauzy fabric and smelling richly of pastries and honeyed ham.

Jack swallowed and leveled his face, straightening slightly in his chair and gazing up at her, as though he had not been expecting her at all. “Ah, Miss Fisher. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Phryne sashayed in, allowing her heels to click alluringly with her steps, and closed the door behind her. Immediately, his office was filled with the sultry, sophisticated smell of her perfume. He could detect a little vanilla, and white orchid, and another earthy, more intimate scent that he could not identify. “I brought you some lunch, Jack! I thought with all these dreadful hours you’ve been putting in, surely you were in need of some nourishment.” 

Jack cleared his throat and looked around, feigning bewilderment. “How did you know my schedule? Have you been-” he smiled at her, small dimples forming in his cheeks that made her feel a little light-headed. “-spying on me?”

At that, she laughed a joyful sound, and he painfully tried to keep a straight face. She came around his desk and sat the basket down in front of him. “Of course not, Jack! Hugh came around this morning and mentioned to Dot that you were all very keen to keep our streets safe from bootleggers.”

“Indeed,” he quipped sharply, but his words were softened by the way the corners of his mouth turned up. “Is that ham?”

Phryne nodded, enjoying his lack of pretense, and opened the lid of the basket. “And some of Mr. Butler’s fresh baked bread, pre-sliced for sandwich making-“ as she listed items, she pulled them out of the basket and placed them, gently, in front of him. “-Cheese, mustard, pickles, and scones, of course, with jam and cream-“ 

Jack could feel his mouth start to water, and suddenly he became very aware that he had not eaten in a very long time, perhaps not since the day before yesterday. As if right on cue, his stomach gurgled loudly.

Phryne smiled, knowingly, and was suddenly very glad to have this power over him, if only somewhat briefly, until his stomach was satiated. “-Crudites, grapes, stuffed eggs, potato salad, biscuits and-” she smiled at him, pulling out a large metal canister. “-a thermos of fresh lemonade!”

“Miss Fisher,” Jack began, already piling ham, cheese, mustard, and pickles onto the sliced bread and pouring himself a generous glass of lemonade into one of the small tumblers he kept in his desk. “Please give my compliments to Mr. Butler.” He did not thank her, but he didn’t need to.

Phryne watched him munch for a few moments, admired the way his jaw worked and his eyes beamed, before she allowed herself to reveal the true (well, mostly true) reason for her visit.

“So, this bootlegger you’re hunting, Mr. Salisbury,” She paused and ate a small biscuit, slowly, chewing thoughtfully. Her mouth was lined with a delicate, soft pink lipstick, which Jack made a point not to notice. “I had the pleasure of attending a rather elaborate party at his estate in Elwood. But I can see what you mean about the bootlegging- there was quite a lot of alcohol on site, and much more in store, I’m sure. I didn’t get a chance to see the source nor the labeling, though. What evidence have you got to condemn him?”

Jack swallowed a mouthful of ham sandwich and shook his head. “I’m afraid we have nothing to go on. If this man is smuggling in illegal alcohol or anything else, he’s being smart about it. Every raid we’ve done at the docks has turned up nothing.”

She made a soft noise in response, plucking a grape out of the small container Jack was currently holding, and plopped it into her mouth. “What makes you think he’s bootlegging at all, then? Perhaps he is just well connected.”

“I have sources.”

“Sources?” Phryne leaned in closer. 

He made the mistake of noticing her lipstick. Damn. 

Jack maintained his poker face. “Yes. Sources.”

“Well,” Phryne said at last, pretending not to note the small- and growing smaller still- amount of air that lingered between their lips. If Jack had noticed it, too, he made no indication. Slightly resentful of this, she straightened up and breathed out, forcefully, through her nostrils. “I suppose all we can do is wait for him to slip up, isn’t it? In the meantime, I’ll attend another one of his wild parties and see if there are any clues I can dig up.”

Jack frowned, suddenly wondering if this was a smart idea. Digging around an alleged bootlegger’s private home was not only illegal, but would probably put the alleged bootlegger in question in a position to act drastically, if she were caught in the act. However, he did not vocalize his concerns. Miss Phryne Fisher did exactly what she pleased, and no amount of caution from him would change her mind. He had certainly learned that the hard way, and he would not waste his breath on it again. He could, however, make sure she was safe. “That sounds like a great idea, Miss Fisher.” He replied, finishing the rest of his sandwich and pushing the basket towards her, to indicate he was sufficiently full. “I will entrust you with surveillance while Collins and I-“ he didn’t smile at her, but his eyes did, “do the actual policing.”

“What a wonderful idea, Jack!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I will leave you to it, for now. I’ve got a party to prepare for. Perhaps we can rendezvous tomorrow and exchange information? Say, my parlor? Around lunchtime?” 

He hesitated, and then finally smiled up at her, one of the few genuine smiles she had ever seen him give to anyone. Suddenly, warmth was seeping through her arms and fingers, and she stared back at him, smiling in kind.

“Good day, Miss Fisher.”

\-- 

 

Phryne arrived home at a quarter past two in the afternoon, just in time to eat a proper lunch that was more substantial than grapes and biscuits. She had conveniently left her basket of treats at the police station, but had found herself more than a bit peckish (and wishing she had at least eaten a sandwich) as she arrived home. 

“Welcome home, Miss,” said Dot cheerfully, greeting her in the foyer and taking her hat and scarf. “A gentleman called on you earlier, Miss, but I told him you weren’t home and that I didn’t know when you would return.”

“A gentleman?” Phryne asked, puzzled. She hadn’t been keeping company with many gentlemen, as of late, unless they were wearing a police uniform. “What did he say?” 

Dot shook her head and produced a single-stem rose with a small note attached. “Not much, Miss. Just left this for you.”

Phryne sniffed, unsure whether to be offended or flattered, and took the rose, turning the delicate stem over in her hands and admiring the silky petals. The note attached said, in a neat hand: “I apologize for my sister. I hope you would not hold it against me. Perhaps I can take you to dinner tomorrow night? Quentin.”

“Oh,” she hummed, remembering the man she had met the previous night and the way his rough hands had felt as they touched her. “How thoughtful!”

“Who is he, Miss?” asked Dorothy, looking at her quizzically.

“Oh,” Phryne said again, frowning. “No one I have time to worry about right now. I’m practically famished!”

After a filling meal of lamb and fresh greens, she had Dot run her a bath.

“Another party, Miss?” asked Dorothy, filling the warm tub with salts and sweet-smelling oils. “But what about your tea with Mrs. Stanley in the morning?”

Phryne leaned against the doorframe, frowning, and toyed with the end of her silk robe, her bare legs pimpled with chill. She watched the steam rise from the bath impatiently, and replied: “Oh Dot, I’ll be fine. I’m only on a fact-finding mission after all, shouldn’t take too long.”

“Still, Miss,” Dorothy continued, dipping her fingers into the water to test the temperature. “You know you’ll be out too late and be cross in the morning.”

Phryne smiled in a way that made Dorothy a little uncomfortable. “Well, why don’t you accompany me? You can help me keep a look out and make sure we get home at a proper hour.”

“Oh no, Miss!” Dorothy exclaimed, suddenly flustered. Secretly, she was curious what a big, fancy party might be like, although she hadn’t the faintest idea what she would do, if she happened to find herself at one. “I couldn’t. I-I don’t have anything to wear to something like that, a-and I-“

“Nonsense, Dot,” Phryne said with a tone of finality, and she dropped her silk robe as though to prove her point. Dorothy gasped and averted her eyes, but did not falter. “We’ll find you a wonderful dress once I’ve gotten cleaned up.” 

Dorothy nodded quickly, aware that there was no use arguing, and saw herself out of the bathroom. 

Finally alone with her thoughts, Phryne stepped into the tub, slowly, allowing her legs to sink to the swirling, murky blue bottom. Then, waist deep, she stretched out, leaned back, allowing the water to catch her and hold her tight, warm and content. Her nose filled with the sharp, sweet smell of warm salt and spice and then, she slipped completely beneath the surface. 

Phryne thought best underwater. Something about the solitude, the rush in her ears that allowed her brain to churn freely, unobstructed by sensory distractions. 

She opened her eyes, looking out at her porcelain-tiled bathroom from underneath the water’s reflections. She felt peaceful, unable to breathe and so painfully at the mercy of her own fragile human body. She felt helpless, drowning, crushed by the weight of the world around her. This was not unlike the feeling of being too close to the Inspector, close enough to see each dark eyelash, the soft flare of his nostrils as he breathed, and each fine line of worry around his mouth. She wondered, then, what that mouth had looked like, before the war had worn it into a permanent frown. She wondered if it would have tasted different, then, too. 

These thoughts were dangerous. Particularly while she was in the bath. She pressed herself to think about the mystery unfolding before her, instead of the Inspector’s lips.

Who could be Jack’s unknown source of information? Surely, it must be someone who worked for Mr. Salisbury, who had either seen the smuggled goods themselves, or had at least been told about it. Either way, the man was certainly not a ghost, and more importantly, not an island. He had help, and lots of it, judging by the colossus of his estate. The question was- what did someone have to gain by giving this information to the police? And, even more uncertain, could they be trusted?

Suddenly, her lungs strained inside of her chest and the water crushed down upon her. Her fragile human body had finally betrayed her. She braced herself, urging her body to calm, to accept the pressure, and slowly, she came back up to reality and oxygen. Cleansed, at least momentarily, of her sins, she slipped out of the bath and began to prepare for her busy evening.

\-- 

 

Phryne waited until later in the evening to arrive at Mr. Salisbury’s sprawling estate, when she knew the party would already be in full swing. Dorothy was with her, nervously wringing her hands in the passenger seat. Phryne had found a beautiful sea green sleeveless dress with a drop-waist and asymmetrical hem that fit Dot perfectly after a few last-minute alterations, and even underneath one of her furs, it was breathtaking. Dot really did have a lovely figure, and it was a shame she hid it under such drab suits. Still, it was a good start. It had taken some convincing, of course, but Dorothy had also let her hair down, and it clung to her neck and shoulders in loose curls, held together by clips and finger waves at the crown.

“It’s not proper, Miss! My arms are bare!” Dorothy had protested, but Phryne was unwavering. 

“I’ll lend you a coat, Dot. Really, it’s not a luncheon, it’s a soiree! One must look the part! We don’t want to raise any suspicion, do we?” Phryne held up two different coats as she spoke, one of fur and one of wool. “You can wear it all night, if you want, although you might get terribly hot.”

Dorothy had sighed and given in, nodding to the fur coat. “Alright, Miss.”

In truth, Dorothy felt radiant. She was beginning to understand what Miss Fisher meant when she said that women should dress for themselves. Even if she didn’t see a single man tonight, she felt beautiful and, truth be told, sexy and alluring. She would need to mention this in confession later this week, of course, (and, she determined, not to Hugh Collins) but for now she was content to allow herself to be caught up in Miss Fisher’s whirlwind. _Besides_ , she thought to herself as she smoothed the creases in her dress, _it was just one night._

Phryne herself was immaculately dressed, as always, wearing an elegant beaded gown, this time in a deeper purple than the breathy lavender that she had worn to the previous nights festivities. It plunged dangerously in the front and back, revealing shoulders and vertebrae, arms and milky skin. She had brought a thin black wrap along, as well, which was also adorned in fine beadwork and trimmed in fur.

As Dorothy trotted beside Miss Fisher, unaccustomed to wearing such thin heels, she took in the large party with bewilderment. So many beautiful people, dressed in gorgeous suits and dresses and fashionable hats, milling around as though they were all practicing a lovely dance. She could feel Miss Fisher’s slender arm resting in her own, and they descended the steps and into the gardens. A tray of cocktails floated down at them through the twilight, and as she was accepting a flute of champagne from a waiter, Miss Fisher had spotted her friends. 

“Keep your eyes open, Dot,” whispered Miss Fisher to her quickly.

“Hello, again, Phryne!” exclaimed a glowing woman, Gillian, whom Dorothy had met a number of times. Standing behind her, looking very bored, was a dark-skinned woman, a petite blonde being held up by a hulking man in a tuxedo, and the same handsome man with fair skin and piercing eyes that had come around to see Miss Fisher earlier that day. Dorothy tried her best not to gawk, and instead busied herself with drinking her champagne. She felt painfully out of place, all of a sudden.

“Ah, Gillian, I’m so glad I caught up with you!” Miss Fisher replied, matching her friend’s musical voice in both pitch and volume. The same man who had delivered the rose earlier in the afternoon, Quentin, nodded at her when he saw her, although Dorothy knew she must look very different. He had a strange look about him, though, as though he was very anxious to be near Miss Fisher. In Dot’s experience, however, most men were.

The group took a seat at a table with two girls in beautiful silk dresses in a startling shade of canary yellow. “Do you come to these parties often?” asked one of the canary-girls of Phryne.

“This is only my second time,” Miss Fisher replied quickly. “Although, I intend to come more frequently.”

“We come every night!” whispered the second canary-girl, mostly to Gillian. “We like to come. We always have such a good time.”

“Did you hear?” asked Gillian, turning her attention to the rest of the group. “Gertie is coming! She has a very handsome escort, too, apparently!”

“I’m surprised her brother is allowing it,” purred Julietta, the petite blonde, “considering how _uncivilized_ we are.”

The dark-skinned woman, whom Phryne had introduced to her as Sylvia, snorted and turned her attention to her drink, while Gillian shook her head. “I heard he was a police officer.”

Phryne hummed, wondering how to get the group talking on the subject of their host once more. “Oh? The police? I heard a rumor that the police were looking into Mr. Salisbury.”

“What on earth for?” hissed Sylvia, clutching her drink in one hand and the hem of her gown in the other. 

“Probably because he’s a murderer!” exclaimed one of the canary-girls, eyes wide with fright and amusement. “I heard he had to escape from America lest he get hung.”

“Hanged,” corrected the second girl, “we have no way of knowing if he’s hung, unless you find out for yourself, of course!”

Phryne giggled, and Dot looked over at her, wide-eyed.

The chatter continued for some time, with happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rising towards the stars. It was unseasonably warm; the air thick with perfume and voices and clinking glasses and moonlight, and nearly every guest was taking a turn of dipping their bare feet into the pool.

Phryne continued to pry, but was unable to come up with anything significant that could help with her investigation. At one point, she abandoned Dot to corner some of the waitstaff. They were just as clueless as the vapid partiers, and seemed unsure where their paychecks came from. “I get money wired into my account at the start of every week, as long as I show up to work,” one waiter told her, hurriedly. “I try not to question it too much, madam. I’m just thankful for the work.”

Another waiter told her a little more. “Ten cases a day get loaded into trucks at the docks and delivered here. Whiskey, mos’ly, and champagne. I wouldn’t know nothin’ about bootleggin’ though, miss. Everything here is legitimate.”

She did manage to remove a small label from a sealed box of goods hidden back behind the bar. It said, in a sharp script, _East Egg Shipping, Inc._

Exasperated and wondering how she could slip past some waitstaff into the mansion for more evidence, she returned to the table and took her seat next to Dot.

Dorothy had kept a look out while Miss Fisher was gone, and now that she had returned, she was making polite small-talk with the rest of the group. Her inquiries must not have been successful, because she had a frustrated look about her. Quentin, however, was clearly not aware of her current change of mood, and was leaning towards her, icy-blue eyes dilated. He was hanging onto her every word as though it was gospel. Miss Fisher, however, didn’t seem to notice. She was deeply engaged with Gillian, now, whose voice was so soft that Dorothy gave up on trying to understand her. Instead, she watched the other members of their group, most notably Julietta, her husband, and Sylvia. There seemed to be a power dynamic at play, which Dot assumed must be racially charged, since it seemed that it was Sylvia who was left out of the conversation and routinely ignored when she spoke.

“Hello, Miss Fisher.”

Phryne didn’t need to turn around to know who was the source of the voice. All eyes at the table looked up suddenly, and finally, Phryne turned in her chair to look as well, preparing her best pout as she did so. The Inspector stood near their table, dressed impeccably in a trim tuxedo with his hair slicked straight back. On his arm was a thin woman with large eyes and short, bobbed hair.

“Gertie, you’re here at last!” exclaimed Gillian, the loudest she’d spoken all evening, and she stood to embrace the newcomer. “I thought your brother would never let you come!”

“Well, it took some persuading, to be sure,” giggled Gertie, who sounded much younger than she looked. She peered sidelong up at the Inspector, who was a full head taller than her and still holding onto her arm.

Phryne stood up, her eyes dark, and addressed Gertie, glancing at the Inspector but not entirely acknowledging him. “It’s so good to finally meet you!” she said happily, touching the young woman lightly on her free arm. “Gillian has told me so much about you.”

“Please, please, join us!” gushed Gillian, pulling up two more chairs, which had seemed to appear out of thin air. More flutes of champagne had also appeared on a silver tray, which had been placed on the table and the empty glasses swept up and forgotten. The two girls in the yellow dresses talked hurriedly amongst themselves, while the rest of the table remained quiet and unsure of the source of the tension that had suddenly descended upon the table. 

“I didn’t realize you attended the parties of bootleggers, Jack,” said Phryne finally, once conversation had distracted Gertie to the other members of the table. Her words hung icy and sardonic between them, not quite harsh but not kind, either. For a moment the rest of the party came to an abrupt, skidding halt, the other members of the group fading away into the clear sky and the bright stars. The familiar feeling of being crushed, helpless, came back to her, and suddenly she deeply regretted saying anything at all.

“I couldn’t let you have all the fun, could I?” he replied, low and breathless, as though the electricity between them had worn him naked and bare. He gazed at her intently, and she gazed back, hoping her poker face was up to scratch. Its not that she was jealous, necessarily. Jack was a grown man- a single man, rather recently, in fact- but she took offense to being ambushed by him and his young date. A little warning would have certainly been polite (especially when she had been dodging longing gazes from Quentin all night long). Instead, she stared back at him, her eyebrows raised and her mouth not-quite smiling. Finally, he broke, and glanced away from her momentarily, only to settle on the pretty brunette sitting beside her. “And Miss Williams! I hardly recognized you!”

Dot blushed and smiled at him. “Thank you, Inspector.”

“Jack,” said Gertie urgently, leaning into him. “Is it alright if I go fetch myself another drink?”

He nodded, looking back at Phryne’s eyes (and momentarily dropping to her lips, which he quickly corrected) and then finally turned around (after a number of torturously slow seconds) to look at Gertie. She smiled and stood up, smoothing her hair. “I’ll be back soon.”

“I”ll go with you. I think I need to find a stronger drink, ” Sylvia added quickly, almost too low and breathy to hear. Phryne was distantly aware that she and Julietta had been arguing about something, although she had not had the mental devices available to eavesdrop.

“I will accompany you, as well,” said Julietta, suddenly. Sylvia did not look pleased about this, and glanced at Phryne with a somewhat alarmed look on her face. Phryne peered back at her, hoping to silently communicate with her, but Sylvia looked away and stood from her chair. The three women ascended the stairs and disappeared into the vibrating crowd. Whatever Sylvia had been trying to communicate, it had been too delicate to connect.

“Would you like to take a walk?” whispered the Inspector, putting his arm around the back of Phryne’s chair. She felt the warmth of his hand close to her bare skin and shivered as though an icy chill were in the air. The close proximity and his breath on her neck caused her to forget that he had come to this party with another woman, and she immediately forgave him of his transgression. 

“Yes, that sounds lovely,” she replied easily, a little more breathlessly than she would have liked, but her heart was beating too furiously for her to focus on poise. Quentin, who had been eyeing the Inspector suspiciously, pretended not to notice that they were whispering to themselves and instead pretended to scowl at something that Julietta’s husband was saying to him. “Dot? Will you be alright on your own for a moment?” Phryne asked, purposefully avoiding Quentin’s gaze.

Dorothy nodded astutely, aware that she would have to be, lest she risk intruding on this private matter between Miss Fisher and the Inspector. She was vaguely uncomfortable with the idea of being left alone with all of these men, but if they were friends of Miss Fisher’s, she would have to trust her judgment of their character. “Of course, Miss.”

The Inspector stood up and offered his hand. “Shall we?” 

Phryne did not accept it, instead stood up and pulled on her wrap. She looked positively radiant, more beautiful than Jack had ever seen her. The beaded aubergine gown plunged dangerously and obscured all the right places, and clung to her as though it were a second skin. He was careful not to let his gaze linger too long on her, and he steeled himself and swallowed his words before he spoke them (words weren’t strong enough to convey her elegance, anyway, and would only serve to embarrass him). If she had noticed him watching her, she made no indication and instead followed him towards the stairs. 

The moon hung fat and low in the sky as they walked up through the humid gardens where the first bees of spring buzzed happily amongst the still budding flowers, the sticky scent of pollen and earth and new life filling their nostrils. They passed couples tangled up in each others limbs, impossible to discern one from the other, perched on steps and benches and tucked away into evergreen shrubs. Marble statues of Greek goddesses and men on horses adorned the grounds, each flanked by beds of roses and dainty myrtles and mauve daisies. 

The Inspector didn’t speak to her as they ascended the stairs and passed the gardens, nor as they entered the small parlor where the waitstaff had set up a fully-stocked bar. The Inspector asked for a glass of whiskey and Phryne got one, too, feeling light-headed and dizzy from so much champagne. The whiskey tore down her throat and cleared the fog from her mind, allowing her to stand a little straighter and better manage her faculties. The Inspector was gazing at her, his mouth turned down into a frown, as though he wanted to say something to her but couldn’t find the words.

“Did you find anything useful?” he asked at last, in a low voice, already rough from whiskey.

Phryne ordered another drink and leaned against the marble bar. “Not much. I did find this shipping label though,” as she said this, she pulled the label out of her dress and handed it to him. “And, a very helpful waiter informed me that ten cases of alcohol are shipped in, daily. That’s not even counting all of the ivory.” 

The Inspector raised an eyebrow. “Ivory, too?”

“Has to be. I saw the waitstaff wearing ivory pins.”

“Hm.” 

They stood in stoic silence, each quietly brooding and nursing their whiskey as though the routine of it were keeping them firmly rooted where they stood. She watched him watch her, the way he glanced quickly at her before looking back to his drink. It was as though he was dying of thirst, and she was a fountain of clear water, but he would rather die than take a sip. 

She wasn’t stupid. The heat that hung, wet and electric, between them, was obvious. She half expected him to act on it, to make an attempt to woo her, with flowers or dinner or romantic nonsense. But he hadn’t. Was it honor that kept him away? He was no longer married. Was it fear of rejection? 

She did not pursue men, as a rule, and as such had sworn not to make the first move with Jack Robinson. Perhaps it was for the best, in the end, that he had brought Gertie to the party. It was something to give them an excuse to pretend like they were just companions, colleagues, whose detective skills were mutually beneficial, and not two people so entirely in love with one another that they were clumsily dancing a never-ending waltz. 

Phryne sniffed and finished her drink. Not that it mattered. Even if they pursued this thing, this hulking shadow that clung to their every word, their every interaction, she would surely end up breaking him, and the thought of being the woman to break Jack Robinson was not something she could forgive herself for. Flirting was one thing, but love was quite another. She respected him too much, needed him too much, to risk his heart.

“Phryne,” said the Inspector suddenly, leaning towards her, his mouth hot and his eyes clouded with whiskey and something else entirely. She had seen that look before, in the solitude of her parlor. He was staring straight into her eyes, his jaw set, the lines around his mouth gone deep, his oath to die of thirst all but forgotten. He put his hand on her arm, gently, his fingers stroking small circles on the soft skin of her elbow. 

Suddenly, she thought he was going to kiss her. Phryne distantly wondered if she should say no, should laugh, should step away and put that thing back between them, unsaid, where it belonged. But she found that she couldn’t pull away, couldn’t resist the pull of his lips that she had imagined on her, so many times before. “About Gertie, I just wanted to say that-“

“Miss!” rang a panicked voice from the gardens. It spirited up the stairs and echoed around the marble walls of the parlor. “Oh, Miss Fisher!”

“That’s Dot,” Phryne hissed, pushing herself away from the bar (and away from Jack Robinson, thank God).

“Oh Miss,” panted Dot, nearly collapsing into the parlor. Her bare chest was damp and heaving under the thin material of her dress, “Miss, it’s- there’s-“

Gillian ran up behind her, nearly barreling into Phryne’s arms, tears streaming down her cheeks. She sobbed into Phryne’s chest, clutching at her friend. Her feet were bare, her shoes forgotten in the swarming crowd outside. “It’s Sylvia. She’s drowned in the pool.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place before the events of Season 3. Also my computer was stolen about a month ago and all my notes- as well as 2 fully written chapters- went with it, hence my delay. But I am rewriting and getting this story put back together slowly but surely. Thanks for your patience. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> Also, I don't know when strawberry milkshakes were invented or if they were available in turn-of-the-century Australia, but I liked the visual too much to omit.

Phryne and Dorothy arrived home just as the sun was beginning to creep over the horizon, casting long, horizontal columns of light through the windows of her quiet parlor. Dorothy went straight up to bed (with only a little encouraging from Phryne) and was assured that she was welcome to sleep in as long as she needed. Phryne, however, couldn't seem to quiet her mind. Questions, potential answers, and Sylvia's cold, dead eyes rang loudly inside her skull, and she made herself a cup of hot tea and began to run herself a bath.

Her evening and the night that followed had been a blur of faces and names and alibis. She recalled the way Hugh had fished Sylvia's body from the pool, the way the Inspector had fingered her eyelids closed, touched her lifeless skin with sad tenderness (and Phryne had shivered, then, as though she were the one lying beneath his scrutiny). They counted the stab wounds that clustered feverishly on her abdomen, seven in total, beginning in her chest and trailing down to the lowest swell of her belly. "This was passionate,” the Inspector had said, and Phryne had agreed, all while the scritch-scratch of Hugh's pen on his notepad took down their thoughts.

She had assisted, happily, with interviewing the sobered partiers, and watched with tired amusement the way that Hugh was unable to take his eyes off his girl, still elegantly adorned in Phryne's gown and furs. There wasn't much to go on at this stage- just a sad, murdered girl and no witnesses. Julietta and Gertie had been the last to see her alive, but suspiciously, she noted that Gertie had disappeared into the night.

"I can't tell you where she's gone off to," Julietta had said with exasperation, holding a handkerchief to her lips. Her dress had become disheveled in the swarming crowd, her coat lost to the frantic sea of partiers, and her makeup smudged as though she had been crying, but her eyes weren't red or blotchy. Phryne had suspected crocodile tears, but did not have the energy to call her on it. "I don't blame her for wanting to get away from this dreadful affair."

"You and Gertie were the last to see Sylvia alive."

"Sylvia went upstairs to find Salisbury," Julietta had replied easily, her pretty lips tugged into an unsettled frown. "Gertie and I had another glass of champagne, chatted for a while about her handsome date- wouldn't you agree he's handsome, Phryne? - and then we returned to our seats."

Phryne had sniffed, indignant, and glanced across the grim crowd, no longer veiled in a warm haze of merriment, but instead now settling in to cold impatience. The Detective-Inspector had caught her eye, and for a brief moment he looked up at her, their eyes catching and somehow unable to part. "So Gertie was with you until Sylvia's body was found?" Phryne had continued, her eyes still watching the Inspector.

Julietta had nodded, muttered a quick apology, and then excused herself to find her husband.

The interviews had continued like that for some time. No one else had seen or heard anything, not even the forlorn, half-nude swimmers, still wet and pimpled with chill. It had seemed, at first, that Sylvia had simply fallen into the pool, but then, slowly, blood had begun to swirl, crimson and dreadful, in the sparkling water. Everyone had become alarmed, panicked, and began to push and shove. It was a miracle the Inspector was able to calm the crowd, and Phryne was secretly impressed with his level head and the authoritative quality that his voice had taken.

Curiously, their gracious host Mr. Salisbury was nowhere to be found, either, which made him a prime suspect. Phryne had wanted to search the house, but it seemed to have been locked up tight by the wait staff, asking that the police come back with a warrant. The Inspector had told her that it was late (or very early, depending on one's preferences), and promised Phryne, then, that he would keep her updated on their progress, and insisted that she return home. For once, she had obeyed him.

As she and Dot had been climbing into the Hispano, ready to be home at last, she had seen the specter of Quentin across the sprawling lawns, his silver-blond hair aglow in the first notes of young sunlight. She had thought that she might go to him, fall into his arms and allow him to help her to forget the sight of Sylvia's unseeing eyes, already milky with death. But she hadn't, and had instead watched him drive away into the dawn, wondering if she would ever get used to the sight of murdered young women.

\--

"How dreadful!" chirped Prudence Stanley, bringing her teacup to her lips. Phryne and Dot had been inexcusably late to tea the morning following the death of Sylvia Buchanan (Phryne was exhausted, but exceptionally well-groomed and elegant, as always). Once the circumstances had been explained to her, however, Aunt Prudence's disdain had faded and her sensibilities restored. "I had heard from Mrs. Garside that she was- I’m sure you heard this too, Phryne, dear- in the family way. What a shame..."

Phryne had chosen a pink and white dress to wear to tea, with ruffled sleeves and a cautious neckline. It reminded her of strawberry milkshakes, like she used to get as a treat when her father took her into town, and this morning in particular she was in need of something to cheer her up. She was not going to allow herself to linger too long on the events that had transpired, murder notwithstanding, and instead focused on finding more information about Sylvia. Dot had courageously attempted to engage her with talk of the Inspector and his young date, but Phryne had dismissed her, politely, and instead set her to a task of mending her stockings (which had ripped while she kneeled on the hard concrete over Sylvia’s body). Gillian had joined them at tea, although somewhat reluctantly, and Phryne noticed that she was more than a bit disheveled. Her large, bright eyes had dimmed, somehow, and her voice had lost its captivating lyrical quality. Phryne wondered, distantly, if Gillian knew who the father of Sylvia’s child was. She made a mental note to corner her, alone, to discuss Sylvia’s death more intimately.

"We'll have to wait on an autopsy to be sure,” replied Phryne quickly, aware of Gillian's flushed cheeks and quaking hands. Gillian had already excused herself twice to use the ladies’ room, and she had a suspicion that her churning stomach was not upset about Prudence’s brunch selection (broth, smoked trout, hard bread, butter, onions, pickled beets). It was certainly a curious coincidence that Sylvia and Gillian fall with child so close together- and Phryne wondered if the man she suspected was indeed the perpetrator.  
  
"I wonder who the father could be,” Prudence continued, echoing Phryne's thoughts, and eyeing the way that Gillian’s hands shook as she brought a spoonful of broth to her lips.  
  
“Excuse me, I’m so sorry, but I am feeling unwell…” Gillian stood abruptly, her hand touching Phryne gently on the shoulder to steady herself.

Phryne stood as well, wrapping a thin arm around her waist to support her. Her whole body was cold, and she steered the young woman through Prudence’s parlor and into the washroom.

Gillian pressed herself against the cool tile wall and let out a long, shaky breath.

“Did you get home alright?” Phryne asked her quietly, wondering if her current state was more psychological than physical.

The young woman regained some coloring and nodded. “Yes, yes. Max drove me home.”

“Is he the father of your child?” Phryne asked pointedly, deciding quickly that it was no use beating around this particular bush any longer. If Sylvia was pregnant and unwed, that would have put her in a dangerous position, and Phryne desperately wanted to protect Gillian from the same fate.

Gillian looked up at her through her eyelashes, tears clinging to them in small droplets. “Yes.” Her voice was low and shaky, and her face had regained its insipid hue.  
  
  
“Does Julietta know?”

Gillian did not answer, only shook her head.

“Good. Let us endeavor to keep it that way, shall we?” Phryne asked softly, gently stroking Gillian’s soft hair. “Does anyone else know?”

“Quentin,” she wrung her hands. “and Sylvia did, but-“

She was interrupted by an urgent knock at the bathroom door. The sound was dull and echoed thickly around them in the small, tiled washroom. Dorothy’s soft voice swam through the door: “Miss, the Inspector has just telephoned for you. He wants you to meet him at the station.”

“Tell him I’ll be there,” Phryne said, loudly, and then, more softly: “Let me drive you home.”

Gillian obliged her.

Nearly an hour later, Phryne eased the Hispano off the road and hopped out, her heels clicking loudly as they met with the pavement. It was another delightfully warm, sunny day. She loved Australia- short, mild winters were such a lovely change from the frigid, wet winters that she was accustomed to in Europe- and her strawberry milkshake dress fluttered in jovial agreement. She trotted up towards City South Police Station just as Hugh Collins was walking out.

“Miss Fisher!” He said with a smile. “I was just on my way to stop in on Dottie.”

“I’m sure she would be very pleased to see you,” Phryne replied, returning his smile. “I’ve just dropped her off.”

He nodded at her and placed his hat on his head. She wondered, distantly, what kind of things they got up to while she was away, even though she knew Dorothy well enough to know that it wasn’t more than longing gazes and hand holding. Sometimes, she felt envious of them and their innocent love, wishing sometimes that her innocence had not been plucked so cruelly from her, so young. Janey would have loved Dot.

“Good afternoon, Inspector,” she called into the police station. The door to his office was slightly ajar.

“Ah,” the Inspector replied as she pushed into his office and closed the door behind her. The temperature inside his wool suit went up several degrees, and he resisted the urge to wipe his brow. “Miss Fisher.”

“How’s that search warrant coming?” she asked immediately, skipping quickly over pleasantries.

He cleared his throat. “Well. It should be here any minute.”

“Would you like to compare notes?” she asked, noticing the dark lines under his eyes. It seemed that neither of them had slept last night. Phryne smiled at him, then, and fluttered her eyelashes at him for good measure. She thought she saw his shoulders ease a little, but it was difficult to be sure.

“No one saw anything, from what I understand. Swimmers claim that Sylvia fell into the pool, no one saw where she came from.” He met her gaze. “No murder weapon has been found, yet, but I imagine our warrant will fix that.”

“And Mr. Salisbury?” She asked carefully, placing herself neatly into the chair opposite him. “Has your source divulged any information about his illicit activities?”

The Inspector's jaw clenched and he fixed his eyes on hers. For a moment, they stared at each other, and Phryne immediately sensed that he was deciding whether to trust her. A sting of hurt shot through her, quickly, and she immediately thought again of the young woman on his arm, only a few hours prior.

“Alcohol is perfectly legal in Australia.” He said at last, and Phryne could not tell on which side his decision had landed. He still held her gaze. “However, it is illegal to ship in moonshine from America and send them back low-quality whiskey at an incredible mark-up,” he paused to fish a folder of papers from his desk, and handed them to her.  
  
“Those are tax records from his shipping business; 'East Egg Shipping'.”

Phryne smiled, pleased that he had decided to trust her, and mentally chastising herself for doubting him. She looked quickly at the files. “No liquor taxes were paid on any of his shipments?”

The Inspector shook his head. “None. Not on the ivory either. And the Americans are quite keen for us to make an arrest, so that he can be extradited.”  
“I see.” She replied, handing him back the folder. “And what about Sylvia Buchanan?”

The Inspector looked up at her, the corners of his mouth turned down. She didn't let herself wonder, again, how that mouth might taste. “We're still waiting on an autopsy. Although judging by her stab wounds, it's not difficult to guess.”

“And If the rumors about Miss Buchanan are true, I think that gives us a pretty clear motive.”

“You believe that she was pregnant?”

Phryne shrugged. “It's hard to say at this stage. Sylvia told me herself that she was close to this mysterious Mr. Salisbury. Perhaps she knew too much about his little bootlegging scheme?”

As if on cue, a constable brought in the warrant and handed it to the Detective-Inspector.

“Why don't we ask him ourselves?” The Inspector stood up with determination and put on his hat. “Are you coming?”

Phryne smiled prettily, and Jack felt his mouth go dry. “I thought you'd never ask.”


	4. Chapter 4

I am so sorry for the lack of updates, I promise I haven't forgotten about all of you! After my computer was stolen I didn't have a computer for a while, and have been doing most of my composing at my computer at work. I am also proud to say that I am working on another MFMM project right now that should at least be posted, in parts, soon. So look for that. It is very similar to this fic- it is a case fic, to be sure- but it is based on a very vivid dream I had. Anyway, thanks for your patience.

ps; events take place post series 2 but pre-series 3, and nothing will ever be wrong between Dot and Hugh in my fics because they are perfect cinnamon rolls who live in a beautiful, innocent world separate from our own. so there. have some hottie fluff and more when I post new chapters <3

 

 

\--

The morning following the murder of Sylvia Buchanan was a trying one. Dorothy had gently tried to engage her employer with talk of the Inspector (and his pretty young date) to no success. She knew better than to assume that Miss Fisher was unaffected- she had watched the pair of them for long enough to know what was brewing there, hot and electric and- well. It wasn't really any of her business anyway, Dorothy thought. Even tea with Mrs. Stanley was exhausting, and it was all Dorothy could do not to sigh with relief when Miss Fisher had dropped her off at Wardlow on her way to the police station.

“Why would anyone want to kill Sylvia?” Dorothy had asked in the car, eyes gazing down at her lap. The Hispano was racing away from Gillian Linscott's small home, and she had to grip her hat tightly to keep it from flying off.

Miss Fisher had kept her eyes forward, watching the road. “I don't know, Dot. But I intend to find out.”

“You will-” Dorothy began, unsure of how to proceed. Her voice sounded small and unsure, and she swallowed. Her employer listened patiently as she began again, this time with more confidence: “You will keep me informed, Miss? Especially if I can help in any way, any way at all.”

“Of course, old thing!” exclaimed Miss Fisher, smiling and gently touching Dorothy's hand. The movement was small, but kind, and Dorothy silently thanked her for it. “You are my right-hand woman.”

That had been enough to keep Dorothy smiling all afternoon, but not long after she had quietly begun her mending and began to regale Mr. Butler of her exciting evening with Miss Fisher, Hugh arrived at the back door, hat in hand. He looked... unsure, and Dorothy immediately knew why. _The dress,_ she thought sadly, remembering the extravagant gown that she had borrowed from her employer for the big party. _He didn't like my dress._

“Hello, Dottie,” he said shyly, nodding at Mr. Butler as he slipped out of the kitchen with a wink.

Dorothy smiled warmly back at him, in love with the way his eyes shone. “Can I get you something to eat, Hugh? Perhaps a-”

“No, no,” he replied quickly, raising his hands defensively. “Please don't bother on my account.”

Something was definitely up. Hugh had never refused food before. Dorothy frowned and held out her hand, which he took as he sat at the table opposite her.

“It was the dress, wasn't it?” asked Dorothy boldly, looking her beau square in the eye.

Hugh flushed pink up to his ears. “Its just that- I've never seen- you looked-”

“I know it was a bit... much,” Dot interrupted, offering him a small smile. “But, Miss Fisher insisted, and I did feel radiant.”

“You were radiant.” He squeezed her hand, his face still flushed. “And that's what I wanted to tell you.” He opened his mouth again, as if to say more, but closed it again as though he realized that saying more could potentially get him into trouble. So, instead, he seemed to settle on gazing at her lovingly and squeezing her hand.

Dorothy breathed a long sigh of relief. She had feared Hugh's judgment- but got his love and support instead.

“I love you, Hugh Collins.” She said softly, her eyes suddenly hot with tears. "Thank you."

–-

Phryne and the Inspector arrived at Mr. Salisbury's estate in the police motorcar just past lunchtime, their warrant sealed in a small envelope. The mansion seemed less impressive, somehow, in the daylight hours; simply a large home surrounded by empty gardens. No wonder its occupant wanted to throw huge, lavish parties- he wanted to fill the lonely spaces. Since her father had inherited a title, Phryne had become familiar with the sort of wealthy folks who had more money than friends, and sought to use their wealth in place of love.

Parked near the garage was a small motorcar, one that Phryne didn't recognize. It was too modest for a man like Mr. Salisbury, thought Phryne, a man who spared no expense. Perhaps it had been left behind by an intoxicated party guest the night before.

“An American car,” she said aloud, mostly to herself, and went over to inspect it. She touched the shiny chrome rims and the sleek black hood almost intimately, caressing the cool metal with her fingertips.

Jack swallowed and felt his skin crawl. The way she touched the car made him feel suddenly too warm. “Shall I wait?” He asked impatiently, hoping his voice didn't betray him.

Phryne tossed him a pout, hoping it would have its desired effect. “Oh Jack, you really have no appreciation for the elegance and power of motorcars, do you?”

“I suppose they do smell better than horses.” Jack replied, impenetrable, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat.

The two of them made their way through the gardens, poking around in the bushes in search of their discarded murder weapon. The air was thick with the scent of flowers and sunshine, the earth beneath them freshly tilled. They neared the glistening pool and split up, Phryne taking the steps up towards the house and the Inspector heading down, towards the tables where they had been seated the night before. Everything appeared as if it had been cleaned- the white ceramic tile which made up the pool, walkway, and stairs all scrubbed shiny and gleaming. Sylvia's blood had been simply washed away, just like that, leaving no evidence that a murder had occurred at all.

The Inspector approached her slowly, coming up from behind a large topiary. She could feel his eyes on the back of her head, piercing. “Did you find anything?”

“Look at this,” Phryne replied, tossing her head towards the pool.

“They cleaned every damn inch of this place,” Jack hissed, crouching to run his fingers over the smooth, spotless tile. “Any luck with finding our murder weapon?”

“None.” Phryne crouched beside him, allowing the way the light danced on the surface of the pool to hypnotize her. “If the knife was here, its gone now.”

They both stared into the pool for several moments, not speaking, and Phryne glanced sideways at him. His eyes met her gaze and held it, blinking slowly, and it became clear that the thing, whatever it was _(hot and wet and electric),_ was back between them, unacknowledged once again. That made her feel safe, for now. She wondered, absently, if she should ask him about Gertie.

“I hope you have a warrant.” Came an unfamiliar voice from above them. Phryne looked up at a small, second story balcony where a trim man in a suit leaned over the railing. He was quite attractive, with dark, olive skin and large black eyes that sparkled with amusement. Nestled between his fingers was a short, fat cigar, which smoldered at one end.

“Mr. Salisbury, I presume?” replied Phryne lightly, smiling up at him. She sincerely hoped her charm would soften him, although she often found Americans harder to manipulate with flirtation.

He chuckled and brought the cigar to his lips, his eyes flashing with an emotion that Phryne could not quite place. “You might as well come in.”

A servant appeared at their side (and took their warrant carefully as he did so) and ushered Phryne and the Inspector into a large foyer and down a long hallway with high ceilings and into a rose-colored parlor, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar, and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like gauzy flags, twisting them up toward the frosted ceiling and then rippling over the wine-colored rug as the wind does the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which a young woman was buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon, dressed in a fluttering white dress. Phryne recognized her immediately, and tossed a glance over her shoulder at the Inspector, who seemed not at all surprised to see her. She must be the owner of the car outside, Phryne decided, and Jack must have known.

“Miss Blackstone,” the Inspector said to her kindly, and she beamed up at him from where she lounged on her floating couch. She made an attempt to rise, leaning forward slightly with a conscientious expression. 

“Jack!” She laughed politely, holding out her hand. “How good to see you.”

“Ah, Gertie, I didn't realize you were so familiar with the constabulary.” Mr. Salisbury stood behind her and placed a large hand on her small shoulder. Phryne couldn't have missed the way his thumb rubbed small circles on her soft skin, and again glanced at the Inspector to gauge his reaction. Unflappable, as always, she noticed, as his eyes were straight and his jaw was set with the quiet determination of a good murder investigation.

Gertie batted her eyelashes prettily, and Phryne had to admit that it was difficult to dislike her. She was certainly charming. “Oh, you know how it is, James. A girl can get herself into all kinds of mischief,” she turned her dark eyes on Phryne, and they flashed dangerously. “Jack rescued me from a boorish man at a little Italian restaurant not too long ago, who seemed to think no meant 'please drag me, screaming, into your motorcar.' I still haven't forgotten. It was so-” She smiled and a blush adorned her cheeks, but Phryne suspected that she was playing coy. “-heroic.”

“Ahem.” Jack cleared his throat loudly, and Gertie smiled shyly. “We are here, Mr. Salisbury, to ask you a few questions about the girl found dead in your pool last night. Miss Sylvia Buchanan.”

“Poor, poor Sylvia,” James Salisbury held out a large, crystal tumbler of whiskey. “I figured as much. Scotch?”

Jack glanced sidelong at Phryne before accepting, as if asking permission. “Thank you.”

“And who are you?” Salisbury addressed Phryne, eyes flashing. His tone was serious, but his eyes sparkled playfully, and he grinned at her. “I doubt you're a _police... woman._ ”

 _He thinks he's being cute._ Phryne scoffed and began to reply, but she was interrupted;

“She,” Jack growled, his voice low, “is assisting with this investigation and you would show her the same respect you would me.”

Salisbury shrugged and offered her a scotch. “Fine with me, Inspector. Please, Miss-”

“Fisher.” She replied coolly, taking the offered drink and tipping it over her tongue. It was smooth and smokey, and made her feel almost human again. While she appreciated Jack's eagerness to defend her, she rather preferred to defend herself.

“Miss Fisher.” He repeated, reclining on the large sofa next to Gertie. As the furniture sagged under his weight, and it began to deflate and lose its balloon-like quality. “Please, sit.”

Phryne and Jack sat opposite them, on a much smaller couch which was covered in soft green velvet and trimmed with small satin embellishments. Phryne rather liked this mans taste, and found herself surprised by the thought. It was suddenly difficult to think about another man when her thigh was softly pressed against the Inspector's on the cramped sofa, and for some reason all she could focus on was the warmth that washed over her skin, and the way that he did not pull away from the touch. Phryne noticed idly that Gertie was watching them, and ignored her in favor of her scotch.

“Where were you during the party last night, Mr. Salisbury?” Jack asked, his voice steady. 

James Salisbury leaned back and touched his hand to his face, snaking his other arm around Gertie on the sofa. The girl had quite an impressive poker face, and Phryne was unable to determine if the affection shared between them was appreciated or reciprocated. And that, she supposed, was her answer.

“I was here.” Salisbury replied easily, picking up his cigar again. “Going over some, ah, important business investments.”

Phryne picked up on the euphemism, and glanced at Jack, who had either missed it, or was determined not to acknowledge it. “And can anyone confirm that?”

“I can.” Gertie replied, her voice lyrical. She locked eyes with the Inspector, who suddenly looked betrayed. “I- I left you and Miss Fisher at the party and came up here. I was with him the rest of the evening, until we heard people shouting about Sylvia.”

Phryne frowned. She recalled that Gertie had gone to refresh her drink when she had left them, and at the time had been in the company of Sylvia and Julietta.

“When you left us,” Phryne began, the suspicion dripping from her voice like poison. This girl was charming, and an even better liar, but Phryne was not going to let herself be fooled. “you left with Sylvia and Julietta. Where did they go?”

Gertie shrugged, her petite shoulder coming up to rest behind her ear. Her movements were dreamlike and slow, almost exaggerated. She reminded Phryne of a silent-film actress she had seen in a picture, once, all big eyes and long lashes. “How should I know?”

“Julietta said last night that you and she had drinks together, and that Sylvia had come up to speak with Mr. Salisbury.” Phryne finished her drink, her cheeks suddenly hot with the thrill of catching Gertie in a lie. She hated that Jack had to bear witness to it, and hoped he wouldn't hold it against her.

“Mm.” Gertie hummed, leaning her head back to rest on Salisbury's arm. Jack shifted, pulling his thigh away. “No, that's not true. I left the two of them and came upstairs. The last time I saw Sylvia alive was when she was drinking at the bar with Julietta.”

“Besides,” Mr. Salisbury leaned forward to ash his cigar, which he had been quietly smoking as Gertie spoke. “What motivation would either of us have to kill Sylvia? I have been friends with her father for years.”

“Was Miss Buchanan privy to your business dealings?” Jack asked, his voice low in his chest. “Did you confide in her?”

James Salisbury grinned. “That is not talk that is suitable for women! Of course not. I watched out for Sylvia, protected her while she was away from home; like a father might.”

Frowning, his cheeks dimpling from where his jaw flexed, Jack stood up and brushed his fingertips across Phryne's arm. It was blatant, and warm, and Phryne couldn't help but feel as though it was for- whom? For Gertie to witness? That seemed so- uncharacteristic, from what she knew of Jack Robinson. Displays of ownership, to make another woman jealous? Or perhaps he was feeling alienated and betrayed, and needed to feel her near, for reassurance?

Phryne pushed the thoughts of Jack's motivations out of her mind, for now, and stood, flanking him as they made their way out. “You don't mind if we continue to look around the premises for our murder weapon, do you, Mr. Salisbury?” Jack was asking. “It is all in the warrant...”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Salisbury replied carelessly, as if he was already quite bored of their conversation. “Whatever I can do to assist the police in finding Sylvia's murderer.”

“Can I offer you a lift home, Miss Blackstone?” Jack offered to Gertie. Phryne frowned; he knew her car was just outside.

“Oh no, I will stay here with James,” Gertie giggled, and crossed to touch Jack on the arm. “But how did you know my car was broken down? The mechanic comes tomorrow.”

Jack smiled at her. “I am a detective, Miss Blackstone.”

\--

Phryne and Jack spent another hour on the grounds of Mr. Salisbury's estate, combing through gardens and topiaries and fountains in search of their missing murder weapon. Once they had given up and decided to head back to the police station to compare notes, Phryne couldn't hold in her questions any longer.

“Don't you think it's suspicious that Gertie was no where to be found while Sylvia was being murdered?” She asked pointedly as they climbed into the police motorcar.

“It seems she and Mr. Salisbury have solid alibis.” Jack replied coolly, twisting his key in the ignition. There was something odd about the way he was being purposefully evasive, and it made Phryne irritable that he thought he could not confide in her.

Phryne sighed, threw her hands in the air, and pressed on: “How do you know her, anyhow? And how did you know that her motorcar was inoperable?”

Jack shut off the engine and turned in his seat to face her, looking at her childish pout with a mix of indignation and endearment. “Gertie and I are- friends. Old friends. I met her brother at the police strike and helped him get his job back. He's a good policeman. We happened to run into each other at the restaurant a few weeks ago and did a little... catching up." He paused and locked eyes with her, his mouth turned down. He was unapologetic, and Phryne couldn't find it in her to blame him for it. After all, how long had they been dancing around the... the unnamed _thing_ that was currently fixed, tightly, between them? How many lovers had she taken, while they moved slowly around it, waiting (and hoping) for it to move out of their way? "And I knew her car was inoperable because she wouldn't have just left it there after last night, unless she couldn't move it. That's not like Gertie.”

Phryne huffed, her passion for the conversation slowly leaking out of her. “How is it that you know her so well that you can anticipate her motives? Is that why you believe her alibi?”

Jack didn't smile, but she could tell that he was more amused by her outburst than frustrated, and that calmed her, a little. At least someone was enjoying themselves.

They drove off in silence, and Phryne did not mention Gertie again. It was all becoming much too curious, and she needed time to think.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating goes up this chapter. :)

When Phryne arrived at Wardlow mid-afternoon the sun was high and unwavering, causing her to finger the brim of her large hat to shade her eyes. Her visit with Mr. Salisbury had created more questions than answers, and was creating a large rift between her and her investigative partner. Jack had always been a mysterious man, and difficult to read- even her flirtations had not allowed her a peak inside his quiet life. She wasn’t even sure where he lived, exactly, or how he spent his off hours, when the two of them weren’t chasing after murderers or breaking and entering… And now, it seemed, that he was purposefully keeping secrets from her; purposefully excluding her from his life, as though she were simply a colleague, and not… what she was, although Phryne couldn’t quite put her finger on what that was. She sighed and turned the doorknob, pouting. Was this what it felt like to be on the other side of an investigation with her? She made a mental note to be more forthcoming with evidence in future investigations.  

 If there were future investigations.

As she stepped into her home, Dorothy appeared at her left, taking her hat. Her hair had been recently washed, and her skin was scrubbed smooth and clean; obviously anxious to wash away her sins from the night before. Phryne made a mental note to ask her companion about the night of Sylvia Buchanan’s death, but this was not the time. “Oh Miss, that gentleman has been waiting for you.”

Phryne blinked, troubled thoughts rushing away like waves at low tide. “Gentleman?”

Suddenly unsure who could possibly be calling on her, she entered the parlor, cocking her hip in a way that caught men off-guard. She wanted honesty, and surprise usually did the trick.

“Ah, Miss Fisher.” Quentin Garside was perched on her sofa, drinking a small glass of wine and looking perfectly poised. He had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and the sun-kissed flesh of his forearms made her feel a little weak in the knees. _Oh._ They had made plans, hadn’t they? All of her business with Jack and the investigation had made her suddenly neglectful of her social calendar.

“Quentin,” She sat down opposite him and accepted a glass of wine from Mr. Butler, who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Quentin smiled at her, his face welcoming and easy to read. Phryne was thankful for that small kindness; she wasn't sure if she could handle another impenetrable man today. “Its a little early for dinner, even for me.”

He smiled and swirled his wine in his glass, looking up at her. He seemed so young; so boyish and charming. It was exhilarating to be the object of his affections, even if only temporarily. “I thought we could socialize properly, before jumping immediately into dinner.”

Phryne reclined and brought the wine to her lips. It was a newer vintage, one that she had discovered locally, mostly by accident, and now had found herself quite fond of. She silently praised Mr. Butler for intuitively selecting the perfect _vin_ to end this tiresome day. “That sounds like exactly what I need.”

Quentin smiled and stood, offering her his hand. “Shall we?”

Quentin took her to a fine restaurant, ordered the finest champagne, her favorite caviar, and ordered a small, tasteful dessert which he allowed her to eat most of, and refused to allow her to pay even a portion of the bill. He engaged her with talk of politics, and stories of America and virgin land, untouched by civilization, and of the small city near Boston in which he had grown up. Phryne was a pleasant and charming date; she smiled at the right times, ate slowly, and hoped that her face would not give her away while she thought about Sylvia Buchanan and Gertie Blackstone and… no. She was not going to think about the Inspector. Not tonight.

“How awful,” she said at once, in response to a story of Quentin’s childhood, which he had just finished and was now looking at her, hopefully, waiting for a response. _What had he been talking about?_

Satisfied with her answer, Quentin had laughed at that, and gulped his champagne. “It was. That poor maid never worked in the state of Massachusetts again. Last I heard, she was living in Ohio and working as a farmhand.”

“And all for refusing to allow Julietta to-“

“That’s right.” Quentin smiled, and Phryne felt her pulse quicken. He was very handsome. It was really a shame that her brain couldn’t be bothered to attend. “But enough about me. You’ve been awfully quiet tonight, Miss Fisher.” He leaned forward, his eyes penetrating her. “What’s on your mind?”

Phryne held his gaze, wondering whether to placate him with a well-meaning lie, or to offer the truth. She smiled, her decision made quickly. “I’ve just been thinking how late it is, and how… inappropriate it is for me, an unmarried woman, to be seen out, at this hour, with the most eligible bachelor in Melbourne Society…” She sipped her champagne and smiled coyly at him. “People are going to talk.” She found herself sincerely hoping that her offer was as tempting as her lips, and that he took her bait.

Quentin’s eyes flashed, and he held out his hand. “Well, then, Miss Fisher… we’d better get you home.”

Phryne took his offered hand, pleased with herself and pouting her lips, which had never let her down. There was nothing like a frivolous night with a handsome man to make her forget her troubles.

For now, at least.

\--

Phryne slid down his naked body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the salty skin just below his navel. Short, coarse hairs tickled her chin, and she looked up at him through her eyelashes, watching his muscled chest rise and fall with each rapid, shallow breath. Quentin had his eyes closed, but made a small noise of encouragement.

She smirked with a mouth smeared clean of lipstick, taking this opportunity to admire the muscles of his waist, chest, and arms. She reached up with two fingers and swept them down the curve of his pectoral, feeling the way it pulled taut like a bow, ready to fire an arrow into her flesh. Now that was a nice metaphor, she thought wickedly, and lowered her mouth onto him.

“Oh, _Phryne_ ,” he moaned, his fingertips gripping her scalp and tugging on her hair. “ _Christ…_ ”

She pressed the taste of him, slick and saline, into the roof of her mouth. She swallowed, her throat pressing down around him, and it didn’t take long before he was soft and spent between her lips. She drank him down eagerly, careful to keep her mind focused on what- no, _whom_ \- was in front of her. The Inspector was not going to intrude on her, not here, not when she was so deliciously occupied.

“I’ve never- have never- with your perfect _mouth_ …” Quentin groaned, pulling her up towards him. As she kissed him, the Inspector flickered before her minds eye once more before disappearing into the darkness, leaving her to her sins. “Please, let me return the favor…”

“Gladly,” whispered Phryne, pulling herself up to accept his tongue.

Nearly two hours later, they lay tangled in her bedsheets, sweaty and gasping for breath.

“You are amazing.” Quentin murmured softly into her ear, his hot breath washing over her neck. His face was close, mouth opening, and she could taste herself on his lips. He ran his hand up her side, pausing just above her breast, where her heart beat erratically. Her nipples jostled with the rise and fall of her breathing, occasionally caressing his palm. “I could fall in love with you.”

Phryne frowned, looking out and up at the ceiling of her _boudoir_. “I’m sure it will pass.” She replied briskly, pressing herself into the cavity between chest and shoulder.

Quentin smiled, amused, and pressed his nose into her ear again, leaving a kiss to the soft skin where he could feel her pulse, now beginning to slow. “Ah, I forgot. The rumors about you must be true then.” His voice was rough with rejection.

“What rumors?” Phryne rolled onto her side to face him, her breasts falling away from his stray hand.

“You’re cold. You don’t allow any man to get close to you, because you’re afraid of marriage.” Quentin was still grinning, clearly a little too pleased with himself.

Phryne scoffed and sat up, suddenly determined to eliminate the smug look from his face. “I am not _afraid_ of marriage-”

“It’s alright, my love,” Quentin replied quietly, his eyes softening. “My sister Julietta was afraid too, and she was quite right, in the end. Men are horrid, evil creatures, who are not to be trusted. You’re smarter than all of them.”

“What do you mean?” Phryne asked quickly, suddenly very interested (but still prickling with anger).

“Before my sister married Max, she considered calling off the wedding,” Quentin began, folding his arms above his head and studying her marbled ceiling. “She knew he was never going to be faithful to her, and eventually, he would get careless.” he paused, and took a breath, as though this was difficult for him to speak of. “But she loved him, for whatever reason, and went through with the wedding.”

“Careless… like he was with Sylvia?” Phryne offered, cautiously, watching her lover’s face for any indication that her assumption was correct.

Quentin turned his head to look at her, as though not at all surprised that she had worked it out. “Exactly like with Sylvia.”

“So Max is the father of Sylvia’s child?”

“Rumors are dangerous, especially for women,” Quentin said quietly, his eyes sliding slowly back to stare blankly at the ceiling. “I’d bet my life that the rumor is what killed Sylvia, regardless of who the father was.”

\--

“Miss!”

The morning light was still weak, filtering in through the gauzy curtains to spill across the room in broken columns. Phryne pulled her covers over her face, ignoring the sound of Dorothy on the other side of her bedroom door.

“Miss Phryne! I’m sorry to wake you so early-“ she paused and pushed open the door, making a point to look straight forward. “It’s just, the Inspector is here.”


	6. Chapter 6

Detective-Inspector Jack Robinson arrived at Wardlow just before the small hands on his watch ticked nine in the morning. He stood outside the gate, studying the dark windows with a frown. There had been a pile of paperwork on his desk when he had arrived at the office this morning, and a message from the coroner’s office that Sylvia Buchanan’s autopsy had been completed. The message, written in a neat hand, was folded crisply and tucked in the pocket of his jacket. He briefly considered attending the autopsy without Miss Fisher, but quickly decided against it. Regardless of what was going on between them (or, to be more precise, _was not_ going on between them), she was his partner, and he couldn’t solve this without her.  

 He didn’t _want_ to solve this without her. 

 So, here he stood, a man in need, just outside of her home.  

 It only took him a few quick strides before he was standing at the door, knocking softly with two knuckles. 

 “Inspector?” Dorothy Williams greeted him softly as she opened the door. “We weren’t expecting you so early.” 

 “I apologize,” he replied, matching her hushed tone as he entered the foyer, and removed his hat. “But I wanted to see if Miss Fisher would like to accompany me to the autopsy of Miss Buchanan this morning. The new coroner finished up a little earlier than anticipated.” 

 “Of course,” she replied quietly, wiping her hands on her apron. “Let me wake her. Do you mind waiting? I haven’t put the tea on yet…”  

 Jack nodded, and watched her ascend the stairs. He briefly entertained the thought of helping himself to whatever was baking in the kitchen (and wafting deliciously towards him), but he decided against it, not wanting to overstep. The boundaries of his relationship with Miss Fisher and her household were vague, and ever-changing, and it made him feel dizzy sometimes trying to make sense of it. He thought back to his time as a young man, before he was married. Courting Rosie had been simple, and easy; the boundaries clearly stated, what was improper and what was proper made clear. Chaperones, and escorted outings, and chaste kisses goodnight, and her father’s approval before he pressed a ring into her hand over dinner.  

 But this- this was something novel and modern and Jack feared that he was far too old for new tricks. 

 Ten minutes later, a young man appeared on the stairs, his shirt wrinkled and his hair mussed and beginning to curl, no longer slicked into a handsome coif (the pomade of the night before no doubt left behind on Phryne’s pillows). Jack rolled his eyes and stepped aside for another of Miss Fisher’s irritating dalliances; although he was sure he had met this man before, and of course, he knew immediately that he had. “Mr. Garside?” 

 Quentin squinted at him, eyes still heavy with sleep. “And you… you are-“  

 “Detective-Inspector Jack Robinson.” Jack frowned and his jaw flexed beneath his skin. 

 Quentin nodded, smug, and extended a hand, which Jack took reluctantly. “Right! You were at the party the other night, with Gertie. The night that…” 

 “That’s right.” Jack interrupted, and smiled (although a little less earnestly than he had intended).  

 “Sorry to meet you under these circumstances,” the young man said with a devilish grin, “although, not that sorry.” He winked, and placed his hat over his hair, hanging limp and boyish around his face. “Are you meeting Miss Fisher? Does it have to do with Sylvia’s murder?” 

 Jack fought the urge to roll his eyes again, and instead pressed his fists deep into the pockets of his overcoat. “That’s right.” 

 “I hope you find who did that to Sylvia,” Quentin said to him as he moved to leave, his voice low and suddenly knowing. “And take care of Phryne.”  

 Jack stepped aside to allow the man to exit and frowned again, pressing down- _something_ \- that was rising like bile in his throat. What was he going to say? That it was Phryne who took care of him? 

 As Quentin Garside closed the door behind him, Miss Williams appeared with a forced smile. “I am sorry about that, Inspector. Miss Phryne will be down soon. Now, how about I put that kettle on, hm?” 

 — 

 Jack enjoyed a cup of tea with Miss Williams and Mr. Butler, and finally got a taste of the delicious-smelling pastries that had been tempting him all morning. After half an hour spent in Miss Fisher’s kitchen, he was in awe at how she was able to maintain such a trim figure; all of the food was delicious, and in such abundance that it made Jack’s head spin. As he piled another helping of scones onto his plate and accepted another cup of tea, he wondered if perhaps he should come over for breakfast more often… 

 Half-way through breakfast, Constable Collins arrived.  

 “Inspector? I wasn’t expecting-“ he bumbled, glancing from Miss Williams to Jack and back again. 

 “At ease, Collins.” Jack said quickly, nodding at an empty seat at the table. “Join us.” 

 Miss Williams giggled, and got up to make a plate for him. Jack watched the way she touched his constable, casually, and the way their fingertips brushed as she handed him a saucer piled high with scones. It was an easy sort of intimacy, young love, that just came naturally to them; and Jack was again reminded that he was an old dog, unable (or was it unwilling?) to accept the new parameters of modern love, and the kind of freedom to touch without permission. 

 Because oh, sometimes he wanted to touch… 

 Mr. Butler spotted her first, and greeted: “Good morning, Miss.” 

 The rest of them looked up as the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher appeared in the doorway, dressed impeccably in a breezy white dress and a matching white jacket with gold trim. Her eyes were outlined with a thin kohl pencil, and her lipstick a cheerful shade of pink, like the inner flesh of a strawberry. 

 “Good morning. Jack, I am sorry for keeping you waiting,” she said easily, their eyes meeting, as though it was his own fault for calling on her so early; and, he supposed, it was. She stole a scone from his plate and sat down opposite him, just as Miss Williams magicked a cup of tea into her hands. “Dot told me that the autopsy report has arrived?”  

 “That’s right.” He replied, scooting back in his chair. “Shall we?” 

 Phryne grinned at him and popped the last bite of scone into her mouth. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

 — 

 The Inspector and Miss Fisher arrived at the hospital with Constable Collins and Dorothy in tow (“I insist that Dot accompany me, Jack. She is absolutely essential to my process as a detective. Don’t give me that look!”). The autopsy room was up on the third floor, and as they ascended the stairs, a familiar face caught their attention. 

 “Mac!” Phryne exclaimed, reaching out to touch her friend on the arm. “I didn’t expect to run into you.” 

 “Didn’t the Inspector tell you?” Dr. MacMillan asked with a sly smile, her eyes flashing. “I’m the new coroner, employed specifically by City South. It seems with all the rearranging,” she paused, tilting her head, “what with Commissioner Sanderson and everyone he appointed being pushed out since the scandal, _someone_ ” she glanced at Jack this time, and Phryne noticed her friend's eyes, “requested I fill the empty coroner spot.” 

 Phryne gaped, unable to hide her excitement. Not only was it huge progress for her dear friend and her career as a pathologist, but it was a huge step forward for women in science... plus, it meant no more ejections from autopsies, or worse, underhanded comments regarding the _misgivings_ of her gender. “That’s wonderful news!” 

 “Yes, it really is. Dr. MacMillan has proved indispensable.” Jack replied quickly, ushering them all up the stairs. "Now, I would like to get to the autopsy. Please, Miss Fisher." His voice was strained. Phryne tossed him a look over her shoulder, but he shook his head, and they continued on, chatting amicably with Dr. MacMillan. He didn’t need to elaborate, not to anyone; she really was the best doctor for the job, and if he needed to exert a little pressure (and use some of his influence at City South) to get her there, that was between him and the new Commissioner.  

 The five of them pressed into the small autopsy room and crowded around the body of Sylvia Buchanan, the sheet pulled up to her neck. Dr. MacMillan began to fold it back, exposing her breasts and her abdomen, and causing Constable Collins to place his hand over Dorothy’s eyes.   “Goodness, Hugh, I’ve seen a body before!” she hissed, and he reluctantly lowered his hand. 

 “Now,” began Dr. MacMillan, clearing her throat. Dot took out her notepad and began to write, quickly, as she spoke. “Sylvia Buchanan was stabbed twice in the chest, and five times in the stomach with a single-edge blade, about ten centimeters wide.” She paused to pick up a long device, in the same shape and size of the weapon, and inserted it into each wound. “The trajectory is downward, which is typical for this kind of wound. The attacker stabbed downwards, instead of jabbing out.” She demonstrated with the small device, thrusting her arm down from above her head, and then jabbing out horizontally from her chest. “This level of violence; its passionate. Angry.” 

Jack frowned. "What would you estimate to be the height of her attacker?"

"Not much more than one hundred and seventy centimeters," Dr. MacMillan replied quickly, gripping Phryne by the arm. "Sylvia was about Phryne's height. If you watch me- I'm only a few centimeters taller-" she paused to repeat the jabbing motion, this time bringing the small, imitation blade down in front of Phryne's chest. "The blade would make the same downward pattern." 

"The murderer couldn't have been Mr. Salisbury," Jack said, his frown deepening and causing new lines to appear at the corner of his mouth. "He's easily three heads taller."

"Unless-" Dorothy spoke up suddenly, causing everyone in the room to turn and look at her. Constable Collins' eyes were wide, and Dr. MacMillan pressed down the urge to scoff. "There were a lot of stairs, miss. At the party. What if-" Dorothy looked around at the four of them, her confidence growing. "What if the killer was standing below her, on stairs? There was a staircase right by where the blood trial enters the pool. And that would account for the height difference?" 

"So," Phryne began, turning to address the group once more. "Our murderer is either the same height as Sylvia, or wanting to disguise their height by stabbing her from a lower stair." 

Jack cleared his throat. "Either way, it doesn't help us much." 

 “What else?” pressed Phryne, eagerly. She turned her eyes back to the body, studying it. "May I?" She glanced up at Mac, who nodded her approval, and Jack wondered what sort of approval Phryne was seeking. 

He got his answer when the Lady Detective placed two fingers to Sylvia’s naked breast and applied a soft, searching pressure. “No breast milk.”  She said quietly, her eyes returning to meet the Doctor's.

 The Inspector and Constable Collins shuffled uncomfortably. Jack had no problem looking at naked women; when they were dead, it was easy to see them as just bodies, and not- well. It certainly made things difficult to watch his crime-solving partner fondle their murder victim. 

 Dr. MacMillan glared at the men, but continued: “Yes, and I checked. She wasn’t pregnant, and there isn’t any indication that she ever was.” 

 “But, if she’s not…with child, ” began the Inspector, looking at Phryne, the frown and deep lines back again. “Then what could have been the motive? Why kill her?”  

 Phryne frowned as well, her thin eyebrows knitted together. “It doesn’t matter whether or not she was actually pregnant, Jack. What matters is that someone _believed_ that she was.” 

  


	7. Chapter 7

The sun was high in the sky, the dew of morning dried up and hanging heavily in Melbourne when the autopsy was concluded. Constable Collins agreed to drive Dorothy home to St. Kilda, and allow the Inspector and Miss Fisher time to discuss the new developments in the murder of Sylvia Buchanan.

“I need you to call Gillian when you arrive home, Dot,” Miss Fisher had said, pulling her companion away from the others as they exited the hospital. “I have a bad feeling about this, and I need to speak with her. Invite her to dinner tonight.”

Dorothy knew her employer well enough to trust her instinct without question. “Of course, Miss,” she replied quickly, glancing over her shoulder at where Constable Collins was waiting by the car. Her heart fluttered in her chest. “Do you think that Gillian could be in danger?” She swallowed the large lump that was beginning to form in her throat. She didn’t like to think about women being killed for- well, not being pregnant, but for the rumors that were circulating about them. If someone had targeted Miss Sylvia based on gossip, then things did not bode well for her employer, who’s name seemed to always be in the mouth of someone or another.

Miss Fisher frowned, and nodded. “I don’t want to take any chances.”

“Right, Miss.” replied Dorothy, and she hurried off to meet her beau with a smile that was more forced than usual.

Miss Fisher and the Inspector rode to City South in the police motorcar in almost complete silence. Her mind was filled and spinning with details, and she couldn’t find it in her to make small talk. Besides- she was sure the Inspector would mention his run-in with Quentin earlier that morning, and she wasn’t feeling up to defending herself.

“Did you get any good information from him?” He asked her, voice low, as if on cue. _Damn that man._

Phryne blinked and feigned confusion. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Inspector. Although, I will say that Mr. Maximilian Trippett is looking like a very good suspect for Sylvia’s murder.”

The Inspector frowned, and pulled to a stop outside of City South. “Why is that? No one at that party had a solid alibi; _your Quentin_ certainly didn’t.”

Phryne fought back the urge to point out that _Gertie’s_ alibi was even flimsier, but decided against it. She didn’t want to open that can of worms again if she could help it. “Jack, Quentin told me that Sylvia was having an affair with Mr. Trippett. I think that even the threat of a pregnant mistress would be enough to throw a man over the edge.”

She stepped out of the car and into the humidity. It certainly felt like it was going to rain soon, and with the thought, she glanced up at the cloudless sky. Or not.

“Some men, perhaps,” the Inspector said quietly, and held the door to his office open for her. She breezed past him, filling his nostrils with the sweet scent of her perfume, and lightly grazing his arm with her scarf (god help him).

“Thank you, Inspector,” she sat herself on his desk, perched neatly with her legs tucked to her side. “But why murder her? Why not just- send her away?”

“As you said, Miss Fisher,” the Inspector replied coolly, sitting down at his desk, making a point to keep his eyes forward and not slip to where her knee rested a mere centimeters from his face. “The thought of a child can be overwhelming.”

Phryne made a small noise of agreement. Her mind reeled, wondering if she should tell him that Gillian _actually_ was pregnant, and (according to Gillian, which Phryne was inclined to believe) by Maximilian Trippett, but decided against it. Surely the beastly Mr. Trippett would be taken care of soon enough, and give her time to fit the pieces together. “Ah, my cab has arrived. I leave it in your capable hands, Inspector.” She slid off his desk and landed on the floor with a neat clip. “You will let me know if you decide to interrogate Mr. Trippett? I’d love to sit in and…” she paused and batted her eyelashes at him. “..Observe.”

Pointedly ignoring her flirtation, the Inspector sighed and threw his hands up. “I don’t see how I can. I have no evidence to condemn him for the crime, not even a murder weapon.”

“Still,” Phryne stalled, pausing at the door. The space filled with air between them, and she suddenly felt like a weight had been lifted from her chest. “You have to admit, it is a troubling coincidence. A rumor floats around high society that a woman is pregnant with the child of a married man, and the next evening, she is murdered?” She lowered her eyes and watched him, his face pulled down into a frown that told her that he knew she was right. “It’s not a coincidence, Jack.”

—

Phryne arrived home mid-afternoon, dropped off by Bert and Cec on their way to the pub, “Although try not to get carried away,” she had warned them as she exited. “I may need you.”

Bert snorted, tossing his head to look at his partner. “Since when’ve we ever gotten-“

“-carried away?” Finished Cec, grinning widely and leaning halfway out the window. “‘Sides, Miss, you know I can hold m’liquor.”

“Jus’a’few pints, anyway,” mumbled Bert, suddenly grumpy to be taking orders. Phryne had flashed them her most convincing smile, and had patted the hood of their taxi with her gloved hand.

Miss Gillian Linscott was already seated, stiffly, on the sofa when Phryne came in through the front. In her hands was a small, steaming cup of tea. _Good,_ thought Phryne as she removed her coat. _She hasn’t been waiting too long._

Phryne pressed her lips into a thin smile, and she entered the parlor. “Ah, Gillian. Thank you for meeting me.”

Gillian was practically glowing, her cheeks rosy and full. She smiled prettily at her friend. “Not at all. I was thrilled to get your invitation.”

“Please,” Phryne said quickly, gesturing to the dining room, where Mr. Butler, who had been waiting for the right moment, was laying out a large roasted duck, small potatoes, and a clear liquid that she suspected was tonic water. “Have you eaten? There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

Gillian’s eyes sparkled and stood, although she seemed somewhat uncertain on her feet. “Oh, I’m practically famished!” Her voice was low and thrilling, and Phryne found herself captivated by this young woman, and gave her a fresh resolve to protect her.

“I went to Sylvia’s autopsy this morning,” Phryne began easily, trying to keep the mood conversational. She could feel Dot’s ears from the other room, straining to hear. Although she would have simply invited the old thing in to listen properly, she had a feeling that Dot preferred to feel as though she had gathered the information on her own. Phryne was no stranger to that feeling, and let it slide.

Gillian’s eyes widened, and she brought a spoonful of broth to her lips. “Oh?”

Phryne reached out and took her friend’s small hand. “She wasn’t pregnant, Gilly.”

“Oh.” Gillian said again, looking down into her soup. “I thought-“

“But you,” Phryne interrupted, as kindly as possible. “are.”

Gillian continued to stare into her soup.

“Was Max having an affair with Sylvia?” Phryne continued.

“I-“ her voice lost its musical quality and was now more akin to a deflating balloon. Suddenly, thought Phryne, she looked very worn-out. “Yes.”

Phryne frowned. “I think you could be in danger.”

“You think Max killed Sylvia?” asked Gillian quickly, pulling her hand away. “And- you think he’ll come after me?”

“I just want to make sure you’re safe.” Phryne continued, her eyes pleading. “Gillian, I know that this is hard, but Max is married, and having a child with another woman-“

“Quentin told me that Sylvia was having an affair with Max,” began Gillian quietly, her eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t want to believe it, but, that night at the party… she confirmed it. And then when she was dead-“ she dissolved into noiseless sobs, tears streaming down her face. “Oh Phryne, what am I going to do?”

“Listen to me, Gilly,” said Phryne, her voice dark. “We’ll finish our dinner here and we won’t speak about this grim business any longer. And then, you will spend the night here, in my guest room, where you will be safe. Is that all right?”

Gillian nodded, and offered her a wan smile. “Oh Phryne. What would I do without you?” She sniffled, and reached out to join their hands once more.  
After they had finished dinner, Gillian excused herself (“Just to freshen up a bit, dear Phryne. I’m sure I can manage that on my own!” she teased). When she returned, she was wearing a startling color of red lipstick, as dark as blood.

“That’s a lovely shade,” Phryne remarked quietly, feeling suddenly as though she were missing something important.

Gillian smiled, and held up a slim, silver compact to admire the _maquillage_. “Thank you. It was a gift.”

The two of them finished eating, and moved on to the parlor, where they both enjoyed several glasses of something bubbly (“But low alcohol content,” Mr. Butler assured them) and laughed as though they were school girls again. Phryne found their newly rediscovered friendship to be endearing and comforting. Yes, she had many women around her; Dot, for one, who was a delight, and Dr. Mac, of course. But Gillian was fresh, and unapologetically idealistic, and it was nice to be able to speak freely of men and their complications without a blush or a rolled eye.

“Why don’t you just runaway together?” Gillian asked quietly, her voice hushed and laced with excitement. She leaned far over, her eyes wide and bright and peering deeply into Phryne’s soul.

Phryne immediately knew how her friend had came to be in such a _delicate_ condition with a married man; she was such an innocent romantic. “It’s not so simple,” she replied, her throat suddenly tight.

And why didn’t they? The Inspector’s face appeared in her minds eye, the night that he had come into her parlor and confessed to believing, for a small moment, that she had died in the wreckage that had killed Gerty Haynes. He had seemed so desperate; a man willing to do anything to heal the infected wound, even if it meant cutting it out. That kind of passion was more than just a flirtatious gaze or a sarcastic quip, it was…. just more. She could imagine some cruel scenario, where she burst into his office and lay herself bare for him: “Take me, Jack Robinson, for I am yours,” and certainly, with his love of the stage, he would find the drama irresistible. But she was not Cleopatra, and he not Antony; she would not offer herself to the asp simply for Rome. She couldn’t.

No, this was better. The ache of a broken heart easier to endure than the heavy chains of love.

After a while, Gillian began to conceal yawns behind her hand, and the clock on the wall chimed nearly midnight. “You need rest,” Phryne had said at last, standing to motion her to the guest room. “I had Dot place clean linens and towels in your room. Please let me know if you need anything else?”

“Of course, Phryne, thank you.” Gillian said sleepily.

Phryne slipped into her bedroom, closing the door behind her and exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She sincerely hoped that the Inspector would be able to make headway on their case, for Gillian’s sake.

—

The next morning, having no obligations, Phryne slept peacefully until Dorothy knocked, twice, on her bedroom door. “Miss,” she called quietly as she entered, offering her employer a warm cup of tea. “It’s nearly lunchtime. Should I wait to begin anything?”

“Has Gillian eaten?” Phryne asked groggily, unsure whether to shoot for a late breakfast or an early lunch. She sipped her warm tea thankfully, relishing the bitter taste of it on her tongue before swallowing it down.

Dorothy crossed the room and placed the tea tray on the bedside table, then turned and opened the curtains, frowning. “Gillian? I don’t know what you mean, Miss.”

Phryne sat up, cradling her tea delicately and blowing on it, a little. “Is she still asleep, as well?” She felt a small laugh grow in her throat with the memory of the previous night. “We really must have stayed up late.”

“No, Miss,” Dorothy replied quickly, turning to face her, her hands becoming cold. “I checked earlier, and her bed was made. I thought she had gone home last night, after all.”

Phryne frowned, her head swimming. “That’s odd.”

After breakfasting on tea and toast and finding herself unable to focus on anything other than her friend, Phryne telephoned Gillian’s residence. It rang once, twice, three times, before the line was disrupted. “Would you like me to try again?” asked the operator politely.

“No, thank you.” replied Phryne quickly, twirling the phone line in her fingers. “Actually, connect me to City South, please. Inspector Jack Robinson.”

“Right away, Miss,” the line clicked and then began to ring.

Several long moments passed, until finally, a familiar voice picked up.

“Jack, I need you to meet me at Gillian Linscott’s home. Are you ready for the address?” she said quickly.

She could hear the frown on his voice. “Miss Fisher, I have-“

“Please, Jack. I think she might be in danger.” She sincerely hoped she was overreacting, and the thought of being teased, later, for worrying brought a small comfort. “Just- meet me?”

“Is this you begging?” he asked quietly.

She smiled, and gave him the address. “I’ll see you soon, Inspector.”

—

Nearly half an hour later, Phryne pulled up to Gillian’s modest home, just a stone’s throw from the beach. She had only been there a handful of times before; it was a lovely little house with two stories, large windows, and perfect white paint. The shutters were a dappled, stony-gray, and the front door painted a crisp, ocean blue. Phryne wondered why she had never been inside until now, and she promised herself, silently, that if Gillian was okay, she would come visit as often as she could.

She killed the engine of the Hispano and adjusted her hat, which had suddenly caught a stray sea-breeze and bucked from her head. Gillian’s home was in a secluded corner of Melbourne, and there was no noise to be heard except for the sound of the water just beyond the crest of a hill, the call of sea birds, and the wind which danced, frenzied, around her. For one, blissful moment, she enjoyed the peace, until she could hear the engine of the police motorcar pulling onto the street two blocks over, and smiled to herself. Jack must have nearly disobeyed traffic laws, arriving so quickly.

She was halfway up the walk when the police motorcar came to an abrupt halt, a few meters from where Phryne had parked the Hispano. As Detective-Inspector Jack Robinson exited his vehicle, Constable Collins in tow, she was already knocking impatiently on Gillian’s front door.

“Gilly?” she called, standing on her toes to peer in through a small, round window. “Gillian?”

It was dark inside, and she could barely make out anything. The floors were covered in a pristine white carpet, and there were a number of small, modest pieces of furniture. On the wall just opposite the entry was a large painting, a portrait of a young woman with a small child perched, grinning toothlessly, on her lap. There was nothing out of place, nothing to suggest that anything was amiss, except for a small staircase, where the delicate wooden railing had been pitched over the side. Phryne traced the broken wood with her eyes, following it to-

“Jack!” She called over her shoulder, desperately, not taking her eyes off the small pool of red that was drying at the landing of the stair. “Help me break the door down!”

The Inspector did not speak, nor question her; instead, he motioned for her to move. With one, fluid movement, he kicked down the door and followed Miss Fisher into the landing of the house.

As they rounded the corner and began to climb the staircase, Gillian’s motionless body came into view. She was face down in a pool of blood, her feet caught on the spokes of the broken railing. Phryne kneeled beside her, placing a gloved hand on her friend’s neck, feeling frantically for a pulse.

“She’s not breathing,” she hissed, and pressed up on her friend’s shoulders in an attempt to flip her over, onto her back. The Inspector came up on the other side and grabbed her hand, now soaked with blood.

“Don’t move her,” he said calmly, stroking her wrist with his fingertips. _“We can’t move her.”_

Phryne felt hot tears begin to track down her face, but she didn’t care. She wrenched her arm from the Inspector’s grip and moved to turn over Gillian’s body again.

“Phryne,” he whispered, pulling her towards him. His voice washed over her, and the warmth spread from her cheeks to her ankles, and suddenly she realized she was shaking. “You can’t. She’s gone.”

She stopped fighting him and allowed herself to be cradled against his chest, burying her face in her hands as she did so. Constable Collins ran to find a telephone, to call for help, but Phryne and Jack paid him no mind. She could hear the Inspector’s voice, distantly, whispering words of comfort to her, but she couldn’t understand them. It felt as though he was speaking a different language, a language that she didn’t understand, and she felt suddenly angry with herself for not comprehending the words.

Constable Collins returned, and began to speak with the Inspector, although he did not let her go, and continued to hold her, tightly, against his chest. She could feel him tracing small circles on her skin, and suddenly, she found it unbearable. Slowly, she got to her feet, pulling out of his embrace.

“Hugh?” she asked, suddenly feeling breathless. “Will you telephone Dot for me? I need her here.”

“No,” replied the Inspector, standing as well. She thought, for a terrifying moment, that he would touch her again, but he seemed to think better of it. “No, I’m taking you home. You can’t work this case, Phryne.”

Phryne scowled, and nearly spat: “Try and stop me.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” the Inspector told her, his voice gentle. “But you need to pull yourself together, alright?”

She nodded, and she imagined that she must look pitiful. She touched the wetness on her cheeks and wiped it away.

“Let me take you home. I’ll keep you updated on our progress, I promise.” He said, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone.

Phryne frowned and straightened a little, as though to prove that she was fit for duty. “I’m fine, Inspector.”

Jack sighed, and turned to address Hugh, although he kept his eyes on Phryne. “Collins, go pick up Miss Williams in the police motorcar. Miss Fisher and I will take things from here.”


	8. Chapter 8

It felt like an eternity before the police photographer arrived. Phryne paced impatiently in Gillian’s well-kept kitchen, pausing occasionally to gaze out the window at the dark clouds beginning to form over the horizon. It seemed it was going to rain, after all.

Phryne reached for the doorknob of the back door, her breath caught tight in her throat. She felt suddenly desperate to get out of the house that felt heavy and suffocating with the death of her friend. It seemed oddly appropriate, now, that the sky fill with heavy black clouds and tear open with lightening, shrouding the entire morning in melancholy. As she touched door, she realized it was unlocked, and open. _So this was the killer’s escape route,_ she thought distantly.

 She frowned and exited the house, closing the door gently behind her. The clouds above Gillian’s small home lurched, and the ocean waves beyond the property swelled in response. Just as the rain began to fall, Phryne noticed fresh tire marks in the earth. She walked out into the storm, the raindrops washing over her like a baptism. _Was she now cleansed of her sins?_ Gillian’s blood weighed heavily on her hands, thick and hot, just as her sister Jane’s was, and the realization- the similarities, her inability to protect them, her sheer negligence- made her stomach twist with guilt.

“Miss Fisher?” the Inspector’s voice echoed out the back door, causing her to jump. It was hard to say how long she had been standing out in the rain, staring at the tire tracks as though she were in a trance. A shiver of cold raced down her spine. “The photographer is finished. And Miss Williams has arrived.”

She followed him back inside, unconcerned that her hair and coat were soaked with rain, dark rivers of mascara tracking down her face. Dorothy stood in the foyer of the house, her eyebrows knitted with concern as she handed her employer a dry coat, a new hat, and a handkerchief.

“Thank you, Dot.”

“I am so sorry about Gillian, Miss,” Dorothy said, her voice hushed. She glanced to where Constable Collins and the Inspector were standing patiently by the stairs, faces dark.

Phryne smiled (although Dorothy remained unconvinced) and changed into the dry clothing. “Shall we?”

As they ascended the stairs behind the Inspector, Gillian’s face came into view. Her beautiful, round face was twisted into a panic, her eyes pressed tightly shut and her mouth gaping. Phryne could hardly look at her, and instead got to work on inspecting the body, with Dorothy quickly writing down notes as she dictated.

Gillian was wearing the same dress from the night before, although hardly recognizable now that it was covered heavily in blood. Phryne slid her hands underneath the sticky garment, careful not to touch her broken skin, and pulled it up to reveal five small stab wounds, clustered feverishly on her friend’s swollen abdomen. A second later, they found two more wounds, these more shallow, just below her collarbone.

The Inspector pointed at one of the stab wounds, which seemed bigger than all the rest. It began just below her navel, and although angled up, had been pulled down to tear through the organ which bulged beneath the skin.

“She was only a few months along,” Phryne said quietly, tracing the wound with her eyes. “but I’d say even if there had been a child in there, it couldn’t have survived that.”

The Inspector looked at her quizzically, no doubt concerned; her outburst earlier She silently thanked him for not pressing her to talk about her feelings, especially in front of Dot.

“I saw tire tracks outside. They look like a newer car; perhaps something American.” Phryne said, her voice low.

“Constable Collins and I will go check out the tire tracks,” replied the Inspector quickly, standing and motioning for the body to be removed. “Miss Williams, will you make sure that Miss Fisher gets home safely?”

 “But, I-“ Phryne began, indignant, also standing and placing her hands on her hips.

 The Inspector leaned in close, touching her arm gently. Warmth flushed her skin and ran down her spine. “Please, Miss Fisher. Get some rest.”

 Phryne sighed, and for once, she didn’t argue.

—

Upon arriving home, Phryne went immediately to the guest room where she had last seen Gillian alive. The bed was beautifully made, the linens clean and unused. She hadn’t even slept in the bed- she must have gone home after Phryne fell asleep. None of her personal belongings were left behind, either. _Why did you go home, Gillian?_ thought Phryne angrily, descending the stairs in the back of her home (so as not to alert Dot, who had been maddeningly concerned and had been less-than-subtly hovering nearby) and retreating out into the warm, wet afternoon. _Why did you go when you knew it wasn’t safe?_

The rain fell more slowly now, the storm nearly passed. The sky was still dark with churning clouds, but there was less intensity, as though the heavens were simply too exhausted to continue its maelstrom. Phryne could relate.

While she watched the rain collect in small pools around her feet, she caught a glimpse of her reflection, and remembered something that had struck her the night before. She recalled Gillian putting on red lipstick; the color of blood. What had she said? _It was a gift._ And in her minds eye, Phryne could see a slim, silver compact resting in her hand as she said it. She knew that she had seen a compact like that recently, but the memory slipped liquid through her fingers, and no matter how much she tried to grasp at it again; it was gone.

“Miss? What are you doing out here?” Dorothy’s voice interrupted her reverie, the concern unmistakable.

“Oh, Dot…” Phryne murmured, still gazing at the small pool, trying to grasp what the clue was. “I’ll be right in.”

_A gift…_

—

The following morning, Phryne was already awake when the Inspector rang her. She could hear Mr. Butler on the telephone with him from down the stairs (“Hello, Inspector. I will let her know at once.”), and she was already dressed when Mr. Butler knocked, quietly, on her door.

“Good morning, Miss,” he said, handing her a cup of tea. “That was the Inspector. He says they have a suspect in custody and he requires your-“ he paused, eyes twinkling. Phryne frowned. “-immediate assistance.”

“Thank you, Mr. B. Will you wake Dot?”

Nearly half an hour later, Phryne and her companion were flying towards City South in the Hispano, Dot clinging desperately to her hat and Phryne biting down hard on her lower lip. Gillian’s death had left her quite shaken, a feeling that she was not fond of but not entirely unfamiliar with, either. Murdoch Foyle had managed to crawl under her skin and fester there for nearly her entire life; and now, Gillian’s killer was writhing there too, causing her stomach to lurch.

When they arrived at City South, there was little time for pleasantries. The Inspector motioned for the two women to accompany him into the interview room. He didn’t insult her by asking her how she was doing, and Phryne felt relief and a soft affection for him wash over her.

“Quentin?” she asked suddenly as she entered, and her eyes fell upon the man who had most recently shared her bed. Dorothy busied herself with getting out her pad and pen, so as to avoid the awkward exchange that was happening before her, but her frown of disapproval gave her away.

The young man sighed, his eyes heavy and dark with exhaustion. He glanced up at them with little emotion, purposefully avoiding Phryne’s gaze.

“The tire tracks that you found at the scene, Miss Fisher,” began the Inspector, interrupting anything Quentin might have to say. “They belonged to a 1928 LaSalle. A very distinctive American car.” The Inspector paused and leaned on the table. “What kind of car do you drive, Mr. Garside?”

Quentin sighed. “I know what it looks like-“

Phryne frowned. She did recall Quentin’s distinctive American car when they went out, only two nights prior. It suddenly felt like an eternity had transpired between them since then.

“Answer the question.” The Inspector interrupted.

“A LaSalle.”

The Inspector glanced at Phryne, who concentrated on keeping her gaze steady. “Did you see Gillian Linscott last night?”

A pause. Quentin’s eyes moved from between Phryne and the Inspector, wary. “Yes.”

Phryne leaned over to look closely at her former lover, suddenly murderous. “Did you kill her?”

“Christ, Phryne,” Quentin leaned back, as far away from her as the small interview chair would allow. “Of course not! She- she called me and told me to meet her at her house, she said that someone was after her-“

“And?” The Inspector pushed, standing by Phryne to get a better look at their suspect. She felt her skin prickle, but put it out of her mind.

“I stayed with her for a little while, but she said she was going to go back to Phry- Miss Fisher’s. She said that she just went home to grab a few things, and that she was going to go back.”

“So you just left her alone?” Phryne asked dangerously.

“I-I…” Quentin began, but he exhaled quickly and put his head in his hands. “Yes. And now she’s dead.”

The Inspector straightened and met Phryne’s eyes once more. Her expression was impenetrable, but he knew her better than to assume that she was not fighting a storm inside of her. “You were having an affair with Miss Linscott, were you not?”

Quentin’s frowned and studied his hands on the table, doing his best to avoid Phryne’s piercing eyes. Judging by the shocked look on her face, she was as surprised by the Inspector’s accusation as Quentin.

“Yes, but-“

“And when you found out that she was pregnant with another man’s child. Your sister’s husband, no less, you got angry and jealous, and you murdered her.”

“I loved Gillian!” Quentin’s voice rose an octave, his eyes wide and desperate. “I would never hurt her.”

“You killed her in a jealous rage once you found out that she had been unfaithful to you.” The Inspector had hoped to rattle the man to get a confession, but he was starting to sense that Quentin didn’t know much of anything. As if on cue, Miss Fisher turned her gaze to him.

“Jack,” Phryne said quietly, realization creeping into her sternum. The Inspector watched as her expression softened. “Whoever murdered Gillian was the same person who killed Sylvia. What motive would Quentin have for killing both women?”

The Inspector wanted to accuse her of bias, but she had a good point. She seemed to be thinking more clearly now that she had gained control of her emotions, and he sighed. “Who had motive to kill Gillian _and_ Sylvia?”

“Maximillian Trippett was having an affair with _both_ women,” Phryne’s voice was hushed, “I’d say he has to be our murderer. And-“ she paused, glancing at Dot, who was gazing at her expectantly. “He drives a LaSalle, as well.”

Quentin was released shortly thereafter with a promise that he would not leave town. Relieved to be cleared of murder, he caught Phryne’s eye as he exited City South. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“It wasn’t a favor.” Phryne replied sharply, not meeting his gaze.

Quentin frowned, but didn’t speak again, and instead slipped out into the warm, wet morning.

“We need to bring Mr. Trippett in right away,” the Inspector said to Constable Collins. “And we need to find our murder weapon.”

Phryne wanted desperately to get back into Gillian’s home. She suspected that her emotionally compromised state had kept her from seeing the crime scene as clearly as she could have, and the idea of missing an important clue clawed dangerously at the inside of her throat.

"Before we do," Phryne interjected, stepping closer to the Inspector. His mouth turned down as she did so. "Lets take another look at Gillian's home."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Phryne drove to Gillian’s house by the ocean alone, desperate to have a moment with her thoughts. Constable Collins had agreed to drive Dot home. Everything felt like it was happening far too quickly, and she hadn't slept a wink. Gillian’s cold, dead eyes stared out from blackness every time she closed her own eyes, and the image of them was nearly too much to bear. Its my fault.

Jack had pulled her aside, after Quentin Garside had left the station. “Are you sure you’re all right?” He had asked, voice rough. His face was stoic, but his eyes pleaded with her. 

“I’ll be alright. Eventually.” She had replied, and she hoped that she sounded convincing. In truth, she doubted that she would ever lift the weight of melancholy that had settled between her shoulder blades— making itself at home beside the disappearance of her sister. But for now, finding the animal that had murdered her friend was the only thing that mattered. The only thing.

The Inspector had frowned at that, but didn’t press her. “Good. You go on to Gillian’s, see what you can find. I’m going to track own Maximillian Trippett.”

The thing between them shifted, slightly, and it gave her pause. “And Phryne?” His voice had gone low, cautious. And he had used her name. “Be careful.”

The rain had created a mudslide of the roads, and when Phryne finally pulled up to the small house with the blue door her tires were caked with mud. The ocean churned in the distance, the rainclouds still pressing angrily down, and immediately she felt like her lungs were collapsing within her chest. Gillian’s modest home stood quietly amidst it all. 

Now or never.

The house was thick with the metallic scent of blood and fear. Phryne let out a quick exhale and covered her nose with a gloved hand. She rounded the corner to the stair where Gillian had been found. The area had been cleaned, but the elegant white carpet was still splattered with blood. Phryne jump-hopped over it and ascended the stair, mindful of the broken railing. There was always so much blood, and it never failed to shock her. Smeared against the wall, handprints grasping at the railing as she tumbled, dying, down the stairs. 

The landing offered more blood, and Phryne continued to follow a trail leading up and down the hall. She entered the bedroom, the bathroom, and found a bag open on the bed, half packed with overnight clothes and a few more understated dresses, a hairbrush, an extra set of undergarments. It seemed hastily done— everything crumpled and thrown about in a hurry.

“So she was planning on returning.” Phryne said aloud to the room, the sound of her voice feeling disembodied, and out of place. 

A few baubles had been knocked off a nearby vanity, and a throw rug was rumpled against a corner. There had been a struggle, beginning here. The blood began just outside of the bedroom, and lead towards the landing where Gillian had been stabbed once— no, twice— before she began to stumble down the stairs. There she had fallen, broken her spine, and stabbed five more times in the stomach. Phryne pressed the image of her bleeding friend from her mind and tried to focus on the evidence she had left behind.

Frustrated and sure there was something missing, she lifted her chin, peering through the dark hallway, back out towards the landing and down the stairs. From the different angle, something metallic caught her eye. Stuck into the carpet near the top stair and covered in blood was a slim, silver compact. 

Phryne picked it up carefully with a gloved hand and examined it. She remembered now— it belonged to Julietta, but had been gifted to Gillian the night before she had been killed. Suddenly, as if an epiphany, the pieces slid into place. 

She wrapped the bloodstained compact in a handkerchief and slipped it into her blouse. As she whipped the Hispano down the road, she began to drive back towards the Esplanade.

——

 

Max Trippett had been easy enough to track down. Detective-Inspector Jack Robinson had a reliable source that told him that their prime suspect spent nearly every evening sipping brandy and smoking cigars at a gentlemen’s club on the east end of Melbourne. Jack had been there once before, on one of George Sanderson’s brothel raids. It seemed to have cleaned up its act of late, though, and only granted entry to men.

Mr. Trippett had come quietly enough, stubbing out his cigar as they approached him. “I was wondering when you’d come for me,” he grumbled, smoothing his jacket. “I’ll be back soon, lads.”

Once at the station, Jack locked the suspect in the interrogation room. It felt wrong to question him without his sleuthing lady-detective companion. Despite all of the complications that had transpired between them… he needed her. He was willing to put aside the— the thing that was writhing between them—even if they never spoke of it out loud. His ill-fated attempt to separate himself from his feelings for her had proved impossible. Truth be told, he could solve murders without her. He had done it before she had sashayed back into Melbourne, and he could do it again. 

But he didn’t want to. He supposed, as he telephoned her, that perhaps he was a romantic. 

No answer. That was odd. 

Miss Fisher was probably still at Gillian’s residence, no doubt finding something that his constables had missed. He wondered if he should meet her there, let their suspect squirm a little. 

After a moment of deliberation, he swiftly decided to stay put. He could fill her in on the finer details of the interrogation later on, but for now, he would press forward. He was anxious to get this case closed.

As he entered the interrogation room, Max was immediately defensive.

“I was at the club when Gillian was killed.” He said quickly, crossing his large arms over his chest. “You can ask the doorman.”

Jack frowned. “I have already taken statements from several doormen and other patrons of the establishment.” 

“Listen—“ Max began, “I had an affair with Gillian. It was short. And it was months ago. As far as I know she’s shacked up with Quentin…” he gulped, eyes downcast. “She _was_ shacked up with Quentin.”

The Inspector frowned and leaned towards him over the table. “She was pregnant with your child.”

Max’s eyes widened, and he scowled. “That’s not possible.” 

“It is. Coroner confirmed it.” Jack stood and circled the table, closing in on the suspect. There was something nagging him, something in the back of his mind. _This isn’t right. Phryne should be here_. “I think that you found out that the mother of your child was living with your brother in law. That seems like a betrayal to me.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” The Inspector frowned. “Perhaps not. Perhaps you were too busy impregnating Sylvia to be jealous about an old fling?” 

“I—“ Max sighed and put his head in his hands.

At that moment, they were interrupted by a man poking his head into the office. 

Inspector Robinson glanced up, irritated. “Constable, can’t you see I’m in the middle of a—“

“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” he began. Constable Blackstone was a transfer from Sydney, and although he was younger than Jack by over a decade, he was tactful and sharp-witted. His younger sister had expressed interest in joining the police force, and Jack, feeling particularly inspired by his lady-detective colleague, was determined to create an opportunity for a female constable. In the meantime, Constable Blackstone had quietly become one of the Inspectors more dependable deputies, although he was careful to keep this information from one Constable Collins. 

“But there are some women here to see you, sir. Quite urgent.”

“I’ll be right there,” replied Jack quickly. He turned to address Mr. Trippett: “I’m not finished with you.”

The Inspector exited the interrogation room and into the waiting area. Standing there, looking skittish, were two women who looked very familiar. Standing beside them was Gertie.

“Gertie!” He said, relief washing over him. He didn’t like her staying with Mr. Salisbury, particularly when they hadn’t cleared him as a suspect. 

Gertie smiled weakly, her eyes shining. “Jack.” She paused and gestured to two young women standing timidly behind her. “These two came to see me at Salisbury’s estate”

The young women looked familiar, and they stepped forward to introduce themselves.

“Hello,” said one, offering her hand. “I’m Lily, and this is my sister Astor.”

The other woman, Astor, also offered her hand. “We met you at Mr. Salisbury’s party.”

Immediately, recognition flooded him. They had been wearing matching canary yellow dresses. “Oh, right.” He cleared his throat. “You two are friends of Gertie’s.”

Lily smiled and glanced sidelong at her sister. “Yes. She told us that-“

“-we could trust you.” finished Astor, looking grim. 

Jack motioned to some chairs. “Please, sit.” 

“No,” they said in unison. “We can’t stay long. Please—“

“Hear us out.”

They peered up at him with wide eyes, and the Inspector sighed. “Continue.”

Lily took a deep breath. “We saw who stabbed Sylvia.” 

Jack frowned and glanced at Gertie, gesturing for the three of them to follow him into the interrogation room. They complied, but Gertie held back. “That’s not all.”

“Oh?” The furrow on the Inspector’s brow deepened and he leaned over to see what Gertie was pulling out of her bag. 

“I found this stuffed into one of the garbage bins. I accidentally knocked it over on my way to try to start my car again.” In her hand was a ladies evening jacket, also familiar, but soaked in dark stains of blood. 

Jack took it into his hands and turned it over, suddenly realizing who the jacket belonged to.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise more excitement soon! Murder? Romance? Sabotage? Coming soon...


End file.
